


New Year's Eve

by AJLenoire



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Because I Apparently Cannot Write Continuous Prose Anymore, Bisexual Ginny Weasley, F/M, Flashbacks, Fluff, Fred Weasley Lives, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Hogwarts Eighth Year, Humor, I don't really know how that happened, Light Angst, Love Confessions, Mild Sexual Content, Minor Lavender Brown/Ron Weasley, Minor Luna Lovegood/Ginny Weasley, Monopoly (Board Game), Past Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley, Post-Hogwarts, Romance, Secret Relationship, Sexual Humor, Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-20
Updated: 2020-10-20
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:47:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 35,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26893924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AJLenoire/pseuds/AJLenoire
Summary: It's December 31st, 1999, and everyone gathers at number 12 Grimmauld Place for a New Year's celebration unlike any other. Reunited with several friends for the first time since her Hogwarts graduation, Hermione finds herself subjected to several questions about justwhatshe and Fred have been getting up to over the past year.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Fred Weasley
Comments: 22
Kudos: 201





	New Year's Eve

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, I know, posting a Harry Potter fic in 2020? Oof. This came to me at 2am and I ended up sitting down one afternoon and writing the first 12k words in one sitting. I could wax poetic about separation of art from artist (problematic at best), or how an artist's prejudices inevitably seep into their work (they do), but Harry Potter has become such a huge culture all on its own that I'm comfortable in saying it has moved far, far beyond Rowling and her transphobic rhetoric. With this in mind, I have absolutely no problem co-opting Rowling's universe and characters for my own enjoyment and making them do as I please. If you're reading this, Ms Rowling, you can try to sue me, but I'm skint, so the joke's on you. Go wring your hands at bathroom signs or something.

The night was cool and clear, the half-moon shining down from a cloudless, starry sky. Each of the handsome townhouses on the street were alive with warm lights and inviting chatter, full to the bursting with people eager to celebrate. This was to be a night quite unlike any other.

Outside, in the street, the calm quiet was disrupted by a sharp _CRACK!_ and underneath the yellowish bulb of a streetlamp, a figure appeared as if from nowhere. Hermione supposed she must look rather at odds with the stylish cars and well-kept facades of the houses along the street, with her deep violet travelling cloak and vinewood wand. But luckily, all the occupants of said houses were far too busy going about their own lives to think to look out their front windows. Privet Drive this was _not_.

To any Muggle that might have seen Hermione at that moment, she apparently walked right towards the fence separating number 11 from number 13, and then… vanished. To Hermione, she walked towards the door to number 12, stepped up on the front porch, and knocked the heavy brass doorknocker—which had been transfigured to look like a lion since her last visit.

A moment later, the door opened. Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, grinned at her. “Hermione!” he said cheerfully, and ushered her in, out of the cold. “How are you?”

“I’m just fine,” she answered, lowering the hood of her cloak and shaking a few errant snowflakes out of her hair. “It’s snowing in Hogsmeade,” she told him. “A _lot_. Poor Rosmerta’s door was nearly frozen shut. Hagrid almost ripped it off its hinges when he was unsticking it for her.”

Harry laughed as he took her cloak and hung it up on the rail that had been nailed to the wall just above the old portrait of Walburga Black. Said portrait was completely covered by a thick blanket that had had several Sticking- and Silencing Charms cast on it, and the blanket itself was covered by several cloaks and coats of the people who’d arrived before Hermione. “He mentioned yesterday,” Harry told her. “Rosmerta didn’t seem too upset, from what he said.”

Hermione shrugged. Rosmerta tended not to get too upset about things these days. She’d lived through two Wizarding Wars, a swarm of Dementors and generations of rowdy teenaged wizards going out on the town for the first time in their lives. One damaged door wasn’t likely to bother her much. “Is _everyone_ else here?” she then asked, looking at the pile of cloaks on the wall.

“Almost,” he told her. “Ron and Lavender got held up at the doctor’s. Everything’s fine, though!” he added quickly, when he saw Hermione’s eyes widen with concern. “More than fine, actually. Turns out, uh, it’s twins.”

Hermione’s eyes widened again, this time in shock. “ _Twins?_ ” she echoed, astounded.

“My ears were burning?” came a voice, and both Hermione and Harry looked down the hallway to see George standing there, drink in hand, grinning at them. “Well,” he then amended, “ _Ear_. Singular.”

Hermione laughed as she stepped past Harry to hug George. When they parted, she said, “Ron and Lavender are… having twins,” and he cackled.

“Oh, yeah, Ronnie sent us an owl a few hours ago—said the three-month check-up ran long, they’d be late.” He shook his head. “Lucky bugger. Twins bring you luck,” he added sagely, wagging a finger.

Hermione raised an eyebrow. “ _Good_ luck?”

George’s mouth dropped open in a caricature of offense. “Miss _Granger!_ ” he exclaimed, scandalised. “I’m _wounded_ by such an accusation!”

She laughed. “Yeah, yeah. How was your Christmas?”

He chuckled. “I’ll tell you about it in the kitchen whilst I make you a drink. Harry was telling us you barely stopped working since school finished—we were all _shocked_ , of course.”

Hermione rolled her eyes as George led her downstairs into the kitchen, Harry following. “How’re your parents doing?” he asked as they both sat down at the long, wooden table and George began rummaging through the nine huge bags of alcohol and mixers Harry’s collective guests had brought along for the night.

George pulled out a white bottle and frowned at it. “Do you like coconut?”

“Not on its own, but it’s nice with other things,” Hermione answered, then said to Harry, “They’re doing well. Still a little annoyed about the, well. You know.”

Harry _did_ know. A little over two years ago, the summer following Dumbledore’s death, Hermione had obliviated her parents’ minds and had them move to Australia as the childless Wendell and Monica Wilkins. After the end of the War, she’d restored their memories. They’d been furious with her, but had understood why she’d done it, and had elected to stay in Australia permanently. Hermione had a suspicion that it was partly so they could all have some space from each other, but they’d been genuinely happy to have her for Christmas, so she didn’t dwell on it _too_ much.

“It was nice,” she went on. “I’ve never done Christmas in the middle of summer before. I actually went sunbathing.”

“I thought you were looking all tan,” George said fondly. “Wish _we_ could’ve gone to the beach.”

Hermione propped her chin up on one hand and watched him mix her drink. “Aren’t you all ginger?” she asked.

He stuck out his tongue at her. “Sun-Protection Charm, my dear lady,” he replied. Hermione had to fight back a small laugh. Not that she didn’t love being a witch, but sometimes she though that wizards’ ability to rely on magic had stifled their imagination in pretty much every other aspect of life. Sun-cream wasn’t technology, it wasn’t going to become sentient and start skulking around in the woods.

“Weather aside,” she said, looking between George and Harry. “How was your Christmas?”

Harry had, of course, spent the holiday with the Weasleys. He exchanged a look with George and shrugged. “Nothing unusual,” he replied, “Good company, excellent food. Luna stayed with us.”

“Unsurprising,” Hermione noted, then smiled. “But sweet. And Angelina?”

George grinned at her. “Obviously,” he said. “We went for a nice walk in the afternoon, just the two of us.” Turning, he then set down a frothy yellow drink on the table in front of Hermione. “Piña colada,” he told her, before she could ask. “Appropriately summery, don’t you think?”

Hermione took a sip. “ _Mm_ , oh that’s wonderful, George, thank you,” she remarked. “When did you learn to make Muggle cocktails?”

He shrugged. “There _are_ a few things Muggles do better than wizards,” he said, “Alcohol is one of them.”

“And fiction,” she told him, once again thinking of her magical-innovation-impeded-other-innovation theory. “Harry can back me up here—aren’t Muggle stories much better than wizarding ones.”

Harry chuckled. “I honestly wouldn’t know, Hermione,” he said, “I didn’t read all that much as a kid, and the only wizarding stories I know are the Tales of Beedle the Bard.”

“I always liked the _Wizard’s Hairy Heart_ ,” George mused, picking up his own drink and taking a sip. Wizard Firewhisky and Muggle coke. “Mum thought it was too gory for us when we were little, though. We didn’t even know it existed until me and Forge snuck the book off the shelf to read it ourselves one night.”

Hermione laughed. “That sounds exactly like something you and Fred would do,” she remarked. “Speaking of, is he here?”

George glanced at her in a way that suggested he knew why she was _really_ asking, and that it had nothing to do with the fact that Fred had naturally come up in the conversation. But he didn’t comment, only saying, “Yeah, we arrived together with Angie. I imagine he’ll be in the living room with everyone else.”

“We should go join them,” Harry then said, ever oblivious about these things. “I know Ginny and Luna have been dying to see you.”

Hermione gave a laugh. “Really?”

Harry shrugged. “I guess they’re your friends or something,” he said, “Like, they like being around you.” He pretended to be disgusted and confused. “Weird, right?”

She made a face back at him. “Horrifying,” she agreed.

In the year-and-a-half since the end of the Second Wizarding War, Grimmauld Place’s cleaning and renovation had finally been completed. The hallways were free of dust, the bedrooms home only to wizards and witches, instead of boggarts and doxies, and the large living room at the back of the house was filled with laughter, people and an enormous Christmas tree. Harry tended to go all-out at Christmas, since he had much nicer memories of it than his birthday (something Hermione and the others were continuing to try to change) and he had the disposable income to afford it. The tree was easily ten feet tall, the silver star at the top just a few inches from brushing the ceiling. Underneath it was a pile of presents, the gifts that people had bought for Christmas but had not had the chance to give out, until tonight.

Everyone cheered out greetings when she walked in the room, raising glasses in toast or calling hello. Aside from Ron and Lavender, all the Weasleys were there, including Bill, with newly-pregnant Fleur; Angelina, who'd gone from being George’s girlfriend to his _fiancée_ only a week prior; and, cooing over two-year-old Teddy Lupin, Andromeda Tonks, who was in conversation with Mr and Mrs Weasley—right until Hermione walked in, at least.

“Hermione!” Mrs Weasley jumped up from the overstuffed armchair she was sitting in and rushed across the room to pull Hermione into a bone-crushing hug. Well aware of his mother’s penchant for affectionately squeezing people at every possible opportunity, George snatched Hermione’s drink from her hand before Mrs Weasley’s arms encircled her. “Oh, it’s so good to see you, dear! I haven’t seen you since you graduated!”

“Top of her class!” boomed Hagrid, raising a brandy glass the size of a kettle. From the slight slurrin of his words, it was not his first.

Disguising her slight breathlessness with a small laugh, Hermione accepted her drink back from George and nodded. “I know!” she said, “Sorry about that, I’ve just been so busy getting settled in my own flat.” Unlike Harry, who now lived in Grimmauld Place (given he was the legal owner and it was infinitely preferable to living with the Dursleys), Hermione lived in the wizarding part of London, just a few streets away from Diagon Alley.

“Me and Arthur have that photo of you and Harry hanging up on the mantlepiece,” Molly told her fondly, “Alongside everyone else’s! Well,” she then added, shooting George a sharp look. “ _Almost_ everyone’s.”

George huffed. “Me and Fred are successful entrepreneurs, Mum,” he said. “But if you really want, we can borrow Hermione and Harry’s graduation robes and get dressed up.”

Mrs Weasley rolled her eyes and muttered something that sounded like _boys!_ but let it lie, tottering back to her seat, just a little tipsy. Mr Weasley, who’d been perched on the arm of the same overstuff armchair, gave Hermione a squeeze around the shoulders. 

"How are you, Hermione?" he asked, "Are your parents well?" He'd met Dr and Dr Granger only once, but had found them immensely interesting and very pleasant. Hermione smiled.

"They asked after you, actually," she said, "And they're doing well. I think they like the sunnier climate."

Mr Weasley beamed, flattered. "Well, if they ever get tired of all that sun and sand, they're welcome to come by the Burrow—or the Ministry, if they'd like to see how I've rebuilt the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Department," he added. It had been dismantled during the war, not that it had been a particularly large Department beforehand, but now with war-hero status and the funding that came with it, Mr Weasley had been able to turn it into something worthy of the title 'Ministry Department'. "Which reminds me," he then said, "If you’re looking for a job, I’m sure Kingsley would be able to put you in whatever Department takes your fancy."

Kingsley Shacklebolt, current Minister of Magic, probably had other things to worry about than a little nepotism towards a war-heroine, Hermione supposed. Like hunting down the rest of Voldemort’s fled Death Eaters. Truthfully, she had no idea if she wanted to work at the Ministry. She could do real change there—more than what a tin of badges and an overbearing white-saviour complex had done when she was fifteen—but she also wasn’t sure if she wanted to voluntarily step into the perpetually muddy waters of politics. She wasn’t stupid, she knew the world was not as black and white as good and bad, but she still didn’t want to get mixed up in the darker shades of grey if she could help it.

“Oh, Arthur,” Mrs Weasley said from her armchair. “You promised you wouldn’t talk about work!”

Mr Weasley gave a good-natured sigh. “You’re right, Molly, dear, my apologies.” He walked back over to her seat and kissed her on the cheek, shooting Hermione a look that seemed to say _if you_ do _want a job, let me know_.

Hermione smiled at them both as she scanned the room for a seat, settling for the other half of the small sofa Ginny and Luna were on. Luna shuffled up so she was practically on Ginny’s lap, then shrugged and swung her legs around so she _was_ on Ginny’s lap. She appeared to have a mistletoe wreath on her head and small baubles hanging from her ears; one silver, one red.

“How has it been moving in to your new flat, then, Hermione?” Luna asked in her dreamy voice, twisting a lock of Ginny’s flaming red hair around her finger absently. “I hear there are a lot of Wrackspurts in Diagon Alley.”

Though she would never truly understand what went on in Luna’s head, Hermione had long since gotten used to her strangeness. Last year had helped a lot in that regard. Having spent her final year of Hogwarts tracking down Horcruxes with Harry and Ron, Headmistress McGonagall had offered all the students in their year graduate qualifications from Hogwarts without exams; on the grounds that their actions during the war, and particularly the Battle of Hogwarts, had more than demonstrated their skill in a number of subjects. Ron (and several others, like Seamus and Lavender) had taken the offer at once, and he was currently training to be an Auror.

Meanwhile, both Hermione and Harry (along with a few others, like Neville and Dean) had asked to instead repeat their final year and do it for real, with a Defence _Against_ the Dark Arts class and no threat of torture if they answered a question wrong. Hermione had wanted to prove to herself once and for all that she absolutely _could_ get O’s in all her subjects, and Harry was just tired of fighting, and was thinking about applying to be Hogwarts’ new Defence Against the Dark Arts professor—a job which, regardless of what he’d done during his time at Hogwarts, McGonagall was not willing to offer him unless he actually completed his NEWTs.

During that year, Hermione and Harry had spent a lot of time with Ginny and Luna, even after Harry and Ginny had broken up in October. It had been amicable, though, and no one had seen any evidence of lingering tensions. Harry had still respected her as his Quidditch Captain, Ginny had still respected him as Head Boy (even if she’d teased him something rotten about it, since Fred and George hadn’t been there to do it themselves).

“No Wrackspurts yet,” Hermione answered. “What about you two? How’s Quidditch qualifying going, Ginny?”

She grinned. “I made it onto the Holyhead Harpies’ reserve squad,” she said, and Hermione let out a delighted shriek.

“ _No!_ Really? _When?_ Wait—why didn’t you _tell_ me?” 

Ginny laughed. “Well, I only found out two weeks ago!” she said, “I figured I’d wait to tell you in person. I made the right choice,” she then added, grinning. “And Luna’s taking over _The Quibbler_ from Xenophilius properly, now.” She patted Luna’s leg affectionately.

Hermione raised her eyebrows. “Really?”

Luna nodded. “Daddy’s going to Argentina to study Furglebats,” she said seriously. “I thought about going, but I don’t want to be away from Ginny for so long, so I offered to take over _The Quibbler_ instead.” Her dreamy smile became a dreamy beam. “Harry’s already offered to give me an interview about what he’s gotten up to since graduating.”

That made Hermione laugh. After the disaster that had been their fourth year, being hounded by Rita Skeeter, followed by three years of the Ministry Propaganda decrying Harry as a delusional teenager and Dumbledore as a doddering old man, Harry was thoroughly sick of the newspapers. With one exception: _The Quibbler_. It had gained a lot of popularity during the war, when Xenophilius had printed things the _Daily Prophet_ had refused to even acknowledge, and had made its position in regard to Harry quite clear. As such, it was now the only publication for which he ever gave any interviews, and the royalties from selling sections of those interviews onto other papers were what had funded Xenophilius’ Argentina trip in the first place. Of course, _The Quibbler_ was the only paper that had the full interviews with all the details.

“I wouldn’t mind getting a quote from you, actually, Hermione,” Luna then said thoughtfully. “I don’t want you to turn into one of those well-behaved women.”

“They do seldom make history,” Hermione agreed. “But I think I’ve caused quite enough disruption, don’t you think?”

Ginny laughed. “You set a teacher on fire in your _first_ _year_ at Hogwarts,” she said. “If that isn’t disruption, I don’t know what is.” She grinned at Hermione. “You can be as well-behaved as you like from now on, no one will be able to overlook _you_.” It was an unfortunate truth that those well-behaved women, whilst they’d often _made_ history, had had their contributions overlooked for their lack of sufficiently-outrageous rebellion that forced historians to pay proper attention.

“Or you,” Hermione replied. Ginny beamed at her triumphantly.

George then came over to their sofa, perching on the arm much like how Mr Weasley was doing on the other side of the room. “So, Hermione…” he said in a deceptively casual tone, making Hermione, Ginny and Luna all look at him suspiciously. “Has it escaped your attention that we’re one Weasley short?”

Hermione knew better than to play Weasley Twins’ games. “Harry said Ron and Lavender got held up at the doctor’s,” she told him. “Weren’t you listening?”

On her left, she heard Ginny snigger. Something mischievous twinkled in George’s eye, and suddenly Hermione felt as though the floor and sofa had dropped out from beneath her, a great lurch in her stomach.

_He knows._

* * *

“Did you _see_ Luna?” Ron laughed. “She’s got a wreath of mistletoe on her head!”

“I don’t know, Ron,” Fred remarked, looking at his cards and frowning slightly. “It’s a pretty clever way of getting a kiss. And now that Ginny’s broken up with Harry…” He gave Ron a meaningful look as George winked at Harry, who was smiling amusedly.

Ron stared at him. “What? Luna isn’t interested in Ginny!”

Fred and George raised identical eyebrows. “And what makes _you_ so sure?” George asked.

“Yeah,” agreed Fred, “I forgot you were the romance expert in the family.”

“Not Bill, who married a Veela.”

“A _French_ Veela.”

“No, not him. You. Hey, Harry,” George then said, leaning over. “Why is my card a different blue to Fred’s? Is that important?”

Ron was staring at him and Fred. “But—but, Harry’s a boy!” he exclaimed, “And so’s Neville!”

“Your powers of observation never cease to amaze, Ronniekins,” Fred declared. “Oh, Gred, I think there’s different shades of blue. See? I’ve got a light one _and_ a dark one.”

“Oh, right,” George muttered, frowning at the board in the center of the table. This Muggle game that Harry had wanted to show them was much more complicated than he’d been expecting. He supposed the Muggles had to compensate _somehow_ for their lack of magic. They were really delightfully creative. They’d have to ask Hermione to show them a good Muggle joke shop sometime, there would certainly be any number of ideas _there_. “So if I’ve got a light blue… do you want my orange one? You have an orange one.”

“Uh…” Fred looked at his own cards, then the board, then Harry. “Should we swap?”

“Harry and Neville are boys!” Ron was insisting, not at all focussed on the game. “So Ginny and Luna both like boys, not girls.”

Fred rolled his eyes. “Ron, has it occurred to you that you can like _both?_ ”

Ron stared at him. “Eh?”

“You can like both,” George repeated, louder. “Merlin, do you need your ears checked? _My_ hearing’s better than yours, and I’ve only got the one!”

“You can also like one but date the other to try it out,” Harry added. “Luna’s quite… adventurous.”

Fred grinned. “Yeah! And Ginny.”

“Hey, whoa,” Harry then said, mock offended. “And if you want to swap your cards, then go ahead,” he said to Fred and George, “But some people like to have as many different cards as possible so its impossible to build houses.”

“Oh, is _that_ was those green blocks are?” George asked.

“Ginny and Luna are going to start dating?” Ron cried.

George shrugged. Fred said, “Maybe. I was just pointing out that the mistletoe wreath is a clever way to get some.”

“What’s a clever way to get some?” came a voice, and they all looked up to see Hermione walk in.

“She’s alive!” Fred remarked with a laugh. “Harry said you were staying here this year with him,” he said, “Where have you been?”

Hermione shrugged and pointed over her shoulder. “The study,” she said. “You know, for Pureblood supremacists, the Blacks have an incredible amount of literature on wizard-Muggle history and relations.” She looked down at the table. “Are you guys playing _Monopoly?_ ”

“Yeah!” Harry replied, just as the twins chorused, “Harry’s teaching us!” Nudging the seat next to him, Harry added, “Wanna join in?”

“Oh, no,” Hermione said emphatically, waving her hands. “I rather like you lot.”

Ron blinked. “So you… _don’t_ want to play the game with us?”

She chuckled. “Finish a game, then you’ll understand,” she said, and Harry grinned at her. Ron and the twins, meanwhile, looked at her dubiously, then frowned down at their assorted cards as if _they_ were somehow to blame.

“So,” Harry said, neatly arranging his cards. He was just missing Piccadilly and then he had all the green streets. “Do you plan to do any holiday stuff whilst you’re on, y’know, _holiday?_ ”

Hermione took the seat he’d offered earlier, just so she could sit down. There were two playing pieces not being used; the wheelbarrow and the thimble. Ron was playing as the dog, Harry as the boot, Fred as the racing car and George as the top hat. Or, that was what the pieces had been _originally_. They’d all transfigured their playing pieces into miniature versions of themselves, though Hermione was pretty sure real-life George wasn’t quite so muscular. Placing the thimble over her pinkie finger, she said, “I wanted to make sure my transfiguration essay is perfect.”

Fred was holding up a light blue street and an orange street. “It will be,” he said breezily. “Even if you were capable of getting less than a hundred and twenty percent on an assignment—which I’m pretty sure isn’t even possible—McGonagall _loves_ you. And you’re a war-heroine.”

“Yes, but McGonagall doesn’t favour Gryffindor students on principle,” Hermione replied, though she blushed at the compliment all the same.

“Should we swap?” Fred asked George again. “You give me, er… Old Kent Road for… Bow Street?”

George looked down at his cards. “Yeah, alright,” he shrugged, and they swapped. “Oh,” he then said. “I have two blues. Does that mean I can start putting blocks on?”

“There’s _three_ of the light blue ones,” Ron said, tapping the board. He then turned to Hermione. “Seriously, you should relax whilst you’re on holiday. You can work at Hogwarts—and you’re not _at_ Hogwarts.”

This was true. Ever since Harry had started living in Grimmauld Place, Hermione had, too. Her parents still lived in Australia (though their memories had been completely restored) and it was such a large, empty townhouse, with just Kreacher for company—plus the rent was free. Not that she didn’t love Hogwarts at Christmas, but in some way, she supposed she _had_ needed a break.

“Fine, I guess you’re right,” she huffed. “I was just going to take a quick break and then get started on Potions, but maybe not.”

That made Harry snort. “Slughorn _definitely_ favours students on principle,” he said, “You’ll be _fine_. Take a few days.”

“Mm. Maybe not a _few_ days. But the rest of the day, sure.”

“Oh, it’s my turn!” George remarked, swiping up the dice. He rolled two threes and landed on Whitechapel Road. “That’s light blue, does anyone have that one yet?” he asked.

“Uh… nope!” Harry said, “Wanna buy it?”

“If I do, I can put blocks on, can’t I?”

“Yep.”

“Gimme!”

The transaction was made, and Ron made to pick up the dice, but Hermione batted his hands away. “Doubles roll again,” she said, and George rolled two fours.

“Careful,” Harry said, “Three doubles in a row and you go to jail.”

Fred, George and Ron all stared at him. “What kind of rule is that?” Fred demanded. “And Hermione,” he then said, “You can afford to take a few days—tomorrow’s the twenty-third, which is basically Christmas Eve, which is _basically_ Christmas. No one should work on _Christmas_.”

“He’s got a point, there, ‘Mione,” George agreed, picking up a Community Chest card. “Ooh, I won a beauty contest.”

“Really?” Fred looked over his shoulder at the card and frowned. “I thought _I_ was the good-looking twin…”

George batted his eyes prettily at Harry as Harry gave him his ‘prize money’, then immediately rolled two fives. “Ah, damn,” he muttered, moving muscular George onto the jail space. “As I was saying,” he continued, “You should take a break, Hermione. Give yourself until at _least_ Boxing Day. Ideally the twenty-seventh. Kick back a little.”

“ _We_ all are,” Harry added, holding up his beer bottle before he took a swig. She hummed.

“I supposed it _is_ Christmas,” she said. “Did you get that cider I like?”

Harry nodded. “They’re in the fridge downstairs.” One of the many ( _many_ ) changes he’d made to Grimmauld Place since moving in had been to have an electrician fit out the kitchen with outlets for a fridge-freezer and an oven. Luckily, the electrician had a son who was a wizard and a wife who was a witch, and apparently his services were in hot supply in wizarding Britain, outfitting often-old fashioned homes with what many people in the twenty-first century deemed necessities. Unsurprisingly, he catered mostly to Muggle-borns.

There was, of course, the slight risk of the fridge and oven becoming sentient, but both Harry and Hermione suspected they would be fine so long as no spells were cast _on_ them, since they didn’t live in the wizarding part of London, which meant there wasn’t too much residual magic in the air. The more advanced the technology, the more sentient it could become—hence the wild Ford Anglia still roaming Hogwarts’ Forbidden Forest—but that generally only happened if spells were cast _on_ the object itself.

Deciding not to trek all the way down to the kitchen right this second, Hermione waved a hand dismissively and stayed where she was. “Luna arrived whilst you were cooped up in the study, by the way,” Harry told her. “She’s wearing a wreath of mistletoe on her head.”

Hermione shrugged. “You and Ginny _are_ broken up,” she pointed out, and he nodded.

“No, I know. I’m happy for them, actually. I think they’d be good together.”

Ron was frowning thoughtfully, but not at his cards. “Hermione…” he said slowly, looking up at her. “Do… do _you_ like both?”

She blinked at him. “I’m sorry?”

He cringed. “I mean… do you… like… girls? Too?”

Fred and George burst out laughing. Hermione, having missed the start of that conversation, just looked at them, faintly annoyed. “Trust us, Ronniekins,” George cackled, “Hermione didn’t dump you just because you don’t have the right equipment.”

“She didn’t _dump_ me!” Ron exclaimed, at exactly the same moment as Hermione protested, “I didn’t _dump_ him!” But Fred and George kept laughing anyway. Harry picked up the dice for his turn and landed on a property Ron owned, but he didn’t seem to notice.

“It was a mutual thing,” Hermione said to the still-guffawing Fred and George. She found she didn’t quite want to look at Ron. Sure, things _had_ been more one-sided on his part, and sure, she _had_ been the one to first broach the idea of their breaking up, but he hadn’t been all that difficult to convince that things just hadn’t quite been working. Besides, he was dating Lavender now, and they seemed deliriously happy together. She had to admit, she’d been quite cruel to both Ron and Lavender in sixth year, and she still cringed when she thought about it these days, but she was honestly happy for both of them.

“You hear that?” Ron asked, “ _Mutual_. Your turn, George.”

“Right,” George muttered, and rolled the dice. “Six! Hey, Ron, isn’t Harry on one of your streets?”

“Huh? _Oh!_ Harry, you owe me—”

“Nope,” Harry cut across.

“What?”

“You didn’t notice before George rolled the dice,” Harry said, folding his arms and leaning back in his seat, a little smugly. “If you don’t notice before the end of my turn, I don’t have to pay you. George, you’re still in jail.”

George, who had been moving tiny, metal muscular George towards Marlborough Street, frowned and put him back in jail, then passed the dice to Ron. “When do I get out?”

“When you roll doubles,” Hermione told him. “Or after three turns. How’s things at the shop?”

“Oh, brilliant!” Fred said, not in response to Ron landing on one of his properties, but Hermione’s question. “Oi, Ron, I own that one. Fork it over.” Grumbling, Ron began counting out colourful paper notes. He had just barely enough to pay. “Yeah, the shop’s going great.”

“It is,” George agreed, “You should come see for yourself in January. We’ve got a couple Muggle-inspired products we’d actually like you two try, as a matter of fact.”

Fred nodded. “Yeah. So if you have time, maybe you can come visit me and George.” As he said this, he was frowning down at his cards, looking deep in thought. “Ron…” he said slowly, “I’m willing to forgive your debt to me if you give me, uh…” He looked down at his cards, then at Ron’s. “Your pink one.”

“Trafalgar Square,” Harry supplied. “What do you mean, come visit you in January? We’ll be at Hogwarts.”

“Oh, we’re opening up a second Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes,” George said brightly, “In Hogsmeade.”

Harry and Hermione both stared at them. “You _what?_ ” Hermione cried, just as Harry exclaimed, “Oh, wow! Nice! When did this happen?”

“Couple weeks ago,” George shrugged. “Didn’t finalise the paperwork until a few weeks ago, though, and a lot of the renovation still needs to be done. But we should be up and open for business before the first Hogsmeade weekend.”

Hermione raised an eyebrow. “I thought all Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes products were strictly forbidden in Hogwarts.”

“Not since Umbridge got kicked out,” George reminded her. He and Fred grinned identical grins. “We actually nicked that _particular_ Educational Degree off the wall before we smashed ‘em all.”

“Mark of pride,” Fred added, and indeed they were both beaming proudly. “Banned in Hogwarts before we even officially opened.”

Ron was glowering at his own cards, equally deep in thought. “Uh… no deal on Traf-lagger Square, I think, Fred. For now. Come back later. You have that Educational Decree hanging up in your Diagon Alley shop, don’t you?” he added.

Fred nodded. “We’re thinking of putting it in the Hogsmeade branch, though,” he said, “For thematic appropriateness. Or until Headmistress McGonagall bans our products herself.”

“She’s not nearly as much of an old bat as Umbridge,” George said, “Besides, Minnie and I have… _history_ ,” he said wistfully, sighing dramatically. “She would never do that to me.”

“Wait,” Fred said, “ _You_ have history? How dare you! You _knew_ Minnie and _I_ were in _love!_ ”

As the pair of them descended into another one of their ridiculous dramatic arguments about who loved Professor McGonagall more—Hermione wondered if they’d ever had one _in front_ of her, and suspected they probably had, or at the very least intended to—Harry turned to Hermione and said, “They’re harmless jokes. If they let Zonko’s in, they’ll let Wheezes in.”

“True,” she admitted.

“Speaking of Zonko’s,” Fred then said, abruptly leaving the fake argument, “That’s where we’re putting our new shop.”

Ron gaped at them. “What?”

“We bought it,” George grinned. “Showed some of our products to Mr Zonko, hoping we could stock some there—you know, we thought about opening a second shop during the war, but there was so much extra security around Hogwarts it didn’t seem worth it—and he offered us the shop instead! He’s retiring!”

“Moving to Spain,” Fred added.

“No way!” Ron exclaimed, “ _Wicked!_ ”

“All thanks to you, Harry,” George went on. “What with your prize money and all.”

Harry flushed. It still made him feel a little uncomfortable to think about how he’d just been able to give away one thousand Galleons like it had been nothing. Not that he regretted it in the slightest, but money had always been an uncomfortable subject for him and he imagined it always would be.

“That’s really impressive, guys,” Hermione said earnestly. “And I’ll admit… I _am_ curious to see what these Muggle-inspired products are.”

George nodded. “We’re very proud. And there’s a couple for the witches in particular we’d like you to test,” he added with a wink. Hermione wondered just what exactly he meant by that. She hoped they weren’t dealing with love potions anymore. All the research she’d done last year when they’d been hunting Voldemort had given her a healthy dislike for them.

She got to her feet. “Well, I look forward to seeing what you guys have planned out next Hogsmeade weekend,” she said, “In the meantime, I think I’m going to find Luna, and get a drink.”

“That’s the spirit!” Fred said with a grin.

“Be sure to knock,” George warned, and Fred and Harry laughed. Ron just went a little pink. He was no more comfortable with the idea of his little sister kissing people than he had been three years ago. Hermione chuckled and headed out of the sitting room, making her way up the stairs to the room Harry had made up for Luna. As it so happened, it was right next to the room Ginny was staying in.

She knocked when she got to the door, but there was no response, and no sound when she pressed her ear against it. The same went for Ginny’s room. Curious, and supposing that she would see them at dinner—and maybe they didn’t _want_ to be found right now—she went back downstairs and headed to the kitchen-slash-lower-dining room for a snack, and one of her ciders. Though the house had a big, fancy dining room on the ground floor, Harry and Hermione rarely used it, preferring the farmhouse-kitchen aesthetic of the kitchen’s long wooden table and uneven floor tiles.

Just as Harry had said, there was a case of her favourite cider on the bottom shelf, and she pulled out a bottle. Unable to find a bottle opener, she notched the cap against the edge of the counter and slapped it with her hand. The cap popped off and landed on the floor with a rattle. She threw it into the bin and turned to the long, bench-like dining table, then startled. Someone was stood in the doorway.

Fred grinned at her, folding his arms and leaning against the doorframe. “Evening.”

She hadn’t heard him approach, hadn’t even realised he’d followed her from the sitting room. Recovering from the surprise, she took a sip from her drink and jumped up to sit on the edge of the counter. “I thought you were playing Monopoly.”

“Oh, I landed on one of the green ones, Harry cleared me out,” he shrugged. “And, well, I was getting kind of bored.”

Hermione chuckled. “Fair enough. I didn’t find Luna, by the way— _or_ Ginny. I think they’re hiding somewhere.”

“Best give them some privacy,” he agreed. “You really should see Luna’s wreath hat, though. It’s batty, but pretty, I guess.”

“Like her,” Hermione smiled. “I think the two of them would be very sweet together. I’m glad Harry isn’t sore about it.”

Fred cocked his head slightly. “And you?” he asked.

She blinked at him. “Why would I be sore about Ginny and Luna getting together?”

He smiled. “Merlin, not those two—then again, you never did answer Ron’s question about whether you like both.” He wiggled his eyebrows at her. “I mean about Ron. Now that he’s off with Lavender.”

“Ah.” She suddenly didn’t feel quite so at ease, and took a long sip of cider. Holding the bottle in her lap, she picked at the paper label. It had grown damp with condensation. “Well. I wasn’t lying when I said it was mutual. I definitely don’t want him back, and… well, I suppose it might’ve been _slightly_ more on my side than his that we broke up, but…” She shrugged. “I don’t want him back,” she said again.

Fred shrugged and sat at the table. “You don’t have to want someone back to be sore when they immediately find someone else to date.”

She chuckled softly. “I guess… I was a _little_ miffed at how quickly they started dating. But Lavender adores him—she has since we were sixteen. And if dating me for a month made Ron grow up just that little bit—”

“Just a tiny, tiny bit,” Fred interrupted. He grinned at her and she tried to give him a withering look but she couldn’t stop the small, amused smile pulling at her lips.

“—just enough that he could see he wanted her then, well, I’m happy for them.” She gave a shrug and took another sip of cider. Fred watched her take the drink, looking almost fascinated by it, and she wondered how many drinks _he’d_ had.

There was a beat of silence, just a little too long to be a pause between conversation, a little too short to be a full lull. An awkward half-step. Then he said, “Hey, mind if I pinch one of those?”

She gestured loosely to the fridge. “Go ahead. Harry bought them.”

He chuckled, walking around the table and benches to her side of the kitchen. “Being friends with the heir to a hair potion empire has its perks, doesn’t it?” he said, pulling a bottle from the fridge. He then frowned as he looked around the kitchen. “Where’s the bottle opener?”

“Oh, I don’t think we have one,” she said, and as Fred reached for his wand, she pushed herself off the counter and grabbed the bottle out of his hand, notching the cap against the edge like before. She slapped her hand down and handed him the bottle.

“That’s unusually laddy,” he grinned, taking the bottle. “Never would’ve pegged Hermione Granger to know any party tricks.”

Hermione went slightly red. “It’s not a party trick,” she said, almost defensive. “I just picked it off a cousin at the last family wedding I went to.” Shaking her hand slightly she added, “I can’t do it too much, though—hurts my palm. I’m sure there’s a proper way to do it that doesn’t hurt.”

Fred shrugged, then angled the bottle towards her. She picked up her own and tapped the neck against his. “Merry Christmas,” he said.

“Merry Christmas,” she agreed, and they took a drink.

“Oh, _MERLIN’S ARSE—_ ” A loud yell exploded from above; unmistakably Ron’s voice. Unfortunately for him, when Fred had put all his properties back into the bank, including his dark blue Mayfair card, Harry had landed on Mayfair next. Now in possession of both it and Park Lane, he’d piled on the houses, and Ron had had the misfortune to land on Park Lane.

“Fine, _fine!_ ” They then heard Ron mutter crossly. “I’ll mortgage Fleet Street. Harry, you’re the bank.”

“Bank _er_ ,” came Harry’s voice, obviously amused.

“Whatever. Give me my money.”

“I think you’ll find it’s _my_ money, Ronniekins.”

Hermione had to bite her lip to keep from laughing out loud, but Fred made no such efforts. He laughed uproariously, definitely loud enough for the others to hear. Not that he cared. He never seemed to care about much of anything.

Wait, no. That wasn’t quite right. He did care. A _lot_. But he didn’t care about _everything_. Only the things that really mattered to him, and what people thought of him was not one of those things. Even his family, as long as they knew he loved them and he tried to be kind and good and brave, he didn’t care if they thought his joke shop was ridiculous, or that he was a prat. He just… didn’t let it bother him.

In some ways, Hermione was exceedingly jealous of him. She’d spent years trying to let that little part of her brain just relax, to make herself truly, deeply _not care_ whether anyone (everyone) liked her. She still struggled with it, still felt hurt if someone disliked her, still felt guilty about it months later.

“I think Ron understands why I didn’t want to play, now,” she observed lightly, and Fred looked at her, curious.

“Oh yeah?”

She grinned at him. “That game has a reputation in the Muggle world,” she said. “For three reasons. One: there are approximately a million different versions. Different cities, different books, whatever. Two: it takes absolutely _bloody_ forever to finish a game. And three: it’s been known to cause huge rifts in families and friend groups alike. It’s vicious.”

“My kind of game,” Fred remarked with a chuckle. “Maybe me and Gred can add a few spells and make a wizarding one.”

“I’d like to see what properties are on _that_ board,” she said thoughtfully. “Would Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes be one?”

“Yeah!” Fred grinned excitedly. “We can make that one of the expensive ones. And Hogwarts. Then we can have Diagon Alley, Platform 9¾, Hogsmeade High Street…” He trailed off, thoughtful. “Anyway, anyway,” he then said, “Enough about work. We’ve all done far too much work today.”

Hermione raised an eyebrow. “‘We’ have?”

“You do so much work that it drags up our averages,” he said matter-of-factly.

She smirked. “My sincere apologies,” she said dryly, “I’d hate for anyone to think you do _work._ Mr Opening-A-Second-Joke-Shop.”

Taking another drink, he laughed. “I’m actually very excited about that, y’know. Don’t suppose you know anyone who’s interested in a part-time job, mind? We’ll need staff, I can’t run the whole shop by myself.”

Hermione thought for a moment. “Are you two going to split up and run the shops separately?”

Fred shrugged. “Maybe,” he said. “I dunno. Georgie’s getting pretty serious with Angelina, they might appreciate some space. And I can always Apparate back for weekends.”

A slight darkness had overtaken his features. Nothing dangerous, nothing deep, nothing that would put him into a bad mood for the rest of the day, but the edge of fear and discomfort stroking against his mind, like a Dementor’s fingers on a cold night. Hermione didn’t have to be a Legilimens to know what he was thinking about. Only seven months prior, he’d almost been crushed to death by a wall during the Battle of Hogwarts. He’d been pronounced dead by a Healer, and it was only a miracle that he hadn’t been dead for real. He—his body?—had lain in the Great Hall with the dead for hours, George sobbing over him, Mrs Weasley sobbing over him, his entire family sobbing over him. And then, somehow, someway, by some miracle, he’d drawn a breath, and if they hadn’t all been there together, none of them would’ve believed it was real.

That, Hermione thought, was real magic. Will made manifest, strong enough belief that something would happen, then it did. Maybe, in some way, they _had_ willed Fred, well, not back to _life_ , but back from the edge of death.

Even so, it’d been hard. Because he’d gone for so many hours without being treated, he had some more long-term problems. He couldn’t always breathe easily, and he’d been told that it was all in his head—PTSD, to be specific—but that didn’t make it any easier when he felt like all the air had been pushed from his lungs. He hated sleeping under thick blankets, under any considerable weight. And scars; ugly jagged ones, paler than his already-pale skin, marred his torso and arms where the rubble had fallen.

Worst of all, however, was the thought that George would’ve had to live without him, was the idea that he might have to live without George.

“Fred?” Hermione said softly. All at once, that darkness receded. Not pushed away, exactly, but cast back. Repelled as if by a Patronus. It took little to pull him back, these days—the fact that the war and all its threats were finally over helped, but mostly it was just time. Time and a few soft words from someone close to him.

He smiled at her. It wasn’t his normal goofy grin, something gentler and more subdued than that, but it was genuine and warm. “You never answered Ron’s question,” he told her.

She blinked. “What?” She wondered if she should press about what he was thinking about, if he felt okay, if he wanted to talk. But he _seemed_ okay, and she didn’t want to pull up bad feelings if they weren’t already up and bothering him.

“Ron’s question,” Fred repeated, “He asked if you like boys and girls, like Ginny does. You never answered.”

Hermione flushed again. “I—well, that’s none of your business, now, is it?” she said, feeling flustered. “And—and it wouldn’t matter if I _did_ like both, of if I liked neither, or—or anything in between.”

“Merlin, Hermione,” Fred muttered, rolling his eyes. “Give me _some_ credit, of course it doesn’t _matter_. I’m just curious.”

She mentally flailed for a moment, confused as she scrambled for words. Then she managed, “… _why?_ ”

He shrugged. “Cause I’m a nosy git,” he said casually. “And Ron seemed to think that you might like girls, like that was why you’d broken up with him.”

“ _Well_ ,” she huffed, “I can promise him that _that_ wasn’t it. I hope he’s not going around telling everyone I’m into women so he can stroke his ego.”

Fred considered making a joke about how Ron probably wouldn’t be stroking his _ego_ , and how Lavender was probably doing the stroking, but decided against it. “He hasn’t, as far as I’m aware,” he told her. “I think he just wonders if… if he could’ve saved it.”

That, Hermione supposed, was nice. Sort of. “I… don’t think he could’ve,” she said frankly. “Some things aren’t built to last. And people change.”

He nodded. “Very logical—I’d expect nothing less from our resident genius,” he added with a wink, and for some reason that made her blush a third time, and even harder than before. “Maybe I should go tell _Ron_ that,” he went on, “Unless you want _him_ to show up with a mistletoe wreath on his head.”

Hermione shoved him lightly. “Oh, don’t joke,” she said, “I think Luna’s being very sweet. And besides, Ron’s with Lavender now, and I really do wish them the best.”

Fred cocked his head again. “Even if you wish they’d gotten together a few months later?” he asked.

She made a noncommittal noise. “More like… I wish I had someone to show off this Christmas, too,” she said. Fred made a sympathetic noise.

“I’d feel the same way, too, if my only romantic experience was Ronniekins,” he said seriously.

Hermione half-scowled at him. “He is _not_ ,” she said indignantly. “I dated Viktor in most of fourth year. Viktor Krum, remember? Youngest Seeker in International Quidditch history?”

Fred pretended to think hard. “Mmm… no,” he said slowly. “No, not ringing a bell. Who’s this guy?”

Sighing, Hermione rolled her eyes. “I _also_ snogged Cormac McLaggen, I’ll have you know,” she said. “Admittedly, he was a terrible kisser, but he counts.”

“Nah, he doesn’t.” Fred waved a hand dismissively. “If they’re rubbish, they don’t count.” He then grinned. “Merlin, you poor thing—your only romantic history is Ron!”

“ _Is not!_ ” she insisted, “And anyway, what do you care? Who’s _your_ romantic history?”

Fred suddenly went very red. “Uh…” he mumbled, but Hermione wasn’t letting him off that easy. She very slowly raised an eyebrow. _Merlin_ , he thought, _she’s even better at that than Mum._ He then felt a vague sense of discomfort at having compared Hermione to his mother. “Uh… Angelina,” he eventually admitted.

Hermione didn’t look all that surprised. “I’d figured, considering you went to the Yule Ball with her. Does George know?”

“That I kissed her? Course.” He spread his hands. “We tell each other everything. Besides,” he then added, “Wouldn’t be right if he dated her and I didn’t tell him. Very un-chivalrous.”

“And us Gryffindor types are _all_ about chivalry,” Hermione drawled. “Okay, then, who else?”

Having seemed to get over whatever embarrassment he’d felt a moment ago—and indeed, embarrassment was a strange colour on Fred Weasley—he leant back against the counter and took a sip of his cider as he thought. “Uh, Alicia Spinnet, we snogged under the Quidditch stands a couple times… Katie Bell, we went on one date in my final year…”

“Is there anyone on the Gryffindor team you _haven’t_ snogged?” Hermione exclaimed mildly.

“George,” Fred said at once, “And Harry.”

She stared. “Oliver?”

“A gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell,” he replied, tapping the side of his nose. Then he grinned and said, “I did kiss him, just the once. A group of us went to Hogsmeade, I think we were celebrating Angelina’s birthday? Anyway, we all drank far too much and started playing Truth or Dare. I picked truth, Angelina asked if I’d ever kissed a guy. I said no. Oliver picked dare… need I say more?” He turned to her with a smile that was more like a _parody_ of seductive than _actually_ seductive. If he’d wanted to, Hermione thought, Fred could’ve made an excellent comedic actor. 

“And?” she asked, “What did you think?”

He shrugged. “Not my type,” he said. “But we were both pretty drunk. Maybe I should get myself a mistletoe wreath, call him over for Christmas.”

Hermione laughed. “Oh, you two would be sweet together,” she said, “You could chatter on about Quidditch all day long.”

“Merlin, no!” Fred laughed, “ _Definitely_ not. I love Oliver, but he got _far_ too serious about that. I _like_ Quidditch, sure, and I loved an opportunity to win—especially against Slytherin—but it’s not my raison d’être like it is for him, you know? He’d talk my ear off about strategies… Nah, I don’t think so.”

“Alas, I guess you’ll have to save your mistletoe wreath for someone else,” Hermione said dryly, taking another drink of cider. 

Fred smirked at her. “Do you want it?” he asked. “Maybe you’ll finally get some decent experience under your belt.”

She huffed again. “I’ll have you know Viktor was an _excellent_ kisser.”

“Was he?” Fred asked, eyebrows raised. “Or was he just your first kiss, and you have a serious case of rose-tinted glasses?” He tapped her forehead.

She swatted his hand away. “I do _not_ have rose-tinted glasses,” she said. “And he _was_ a good kisser.”

Fred slumped against the counter so he was resting his elbows on it. His legs were stretched out so far, his feet were under the table’s bench. “You say that, but you’re comparing him firstly to _Ron_ , and secondly to McLaggen—who _you_ just admitted was terrible.”

“You know, just because Ron’s your brother doesn’t mean he’s automatically a terrible kisser,” she pointed out, and he laughed.

“Honestly I don’t like thinking too much about whether Ron’s good at kissing or not,” he said. “And I don’t hear you saying he was _good_.”

Hermione nibbled her bottom lip, and when she took another drink from her cider—emptying the bottle—Fred laughed. She handed him the empty bottle and he threw it into the plastic recycling bin. As she opened the fridge for another bottle, her face hidden from Fred by the door, she said, “He was… fine.”

“‘Fine’,” Fred echoed. “A stunning review there, Miss Granger. The women will be queueing up and down the streets for a taste of _that_ action.”

Closing the fridge, Hermione decided she wasn’t going to look at him, but he looked at her, and noticed how red she’d gone. A slight prick of guilt, concern he might’ve gone too far, niggled at him. “Aw, c’mon, ‘Mione,” he said, nudging her playfully. “I’m only teasing.”

Hermione slapped her hand down on the bottlecap, making Fred jump. That may have been intentional. “I know,” she said, and she did, but it was still a little uncomfortable to be discussing this, and she wasn’t even really sure _why_. Was it because Ron was just upstairs? No—it wasn’t like he could hear her. Was it because Ron was Fred’s brother? That couldn’t be it, she’d had any number of conversations like this—and far more detailed, scandalous ones—with Ginny. Maybe it was because Fred was older than her, and a boy.

Well, not really a boy. He was twenty; that was a ‘man’ by pretty much anyone’s standards. All the same, his cheeky grin, red hair and freckles leant him an air of the immortal youth, perpetual boyhood. It was kind of charming, but also a little mortifying when conversation turned to sex—as it so often did at their age.

With a shrug, she pushed herself up to sit on the counter again. “I guess… Ron has Lavender, and Harry had Ginny. George has Angelina. I don’t really…” She sighed. “I know I’m only nineteen, and I know plenty of people my age have never had proper relationships or even been _kissed_ , and I know that’s perfectly fine and normal, but…” She made a vague, aimless gesture with her hands, like she was trying to reach out and physically pluck the right words from the air. With a sigh, she threw them up. “I don’t know. I guess… maybe I was hoping I would’ve had something like that. More than one kiss in the middle of the Battle of Hogwarts. One of those big romances,” she mused, taking a drink.

Fred nodded. “I get that,” he said. “But you’re right, too. Loads of people our age have never had serious relationships, or sex, or whatever. And it does kind of suck, but it’s not doing anyone any _harm_.” He gave her a sidelong glance and smirked. “You just want someone to show off to Ron.”

“Not even that!” she said with a laugh. “I want to show that I… that I’m an _adult_. And that I really don’t _mind_ , because I see how he gets when Lavender comes up in conversation and I’m there. I think he feels… guilty.”

“He should,” Fred told her, and she stared at him. He shrugged. “You’re an amazing witch, Hermione. He’s a damn fool that he let you go.”

Yet again, Hermione blushed, and tried to hide it by turning her head away to take a drink. That first cider had already gone straight to her head—but then, she suddenly realised, she hadn’t eaten in hours. She’d been in the study, doing her Transfiguration essay since lunch, and it was well into evening now.

“Maybe I _should_ borrow that wreath of Luna’s,” she murmured, then laughed.

“You do deserve a proper kiss,” Fred agreed, also laughing.

“I _have_ been properly kissed!” she exclaimed, “Viktor—”

“ _Doesn’t count_ ,” Fred repeated in a sing-song.

She raised an eyebrow at him. “And why not? He was handsome, he was decent, and we _still_ exchange letters. He’s captain of the Bulgaria national team now,” she added matter-of-factly.

Fred shook his head. “Nah, I still say he doesn’t count. People from other countries don’t count.”

“Well, _that’s_ xenophobic,” she remarked.

“Uh-uh.” He shook his head. “Don’t try using your fancy Muggle words on me, I know what that one means—and it’s not xenophobic, it’s just fact. If they’re from another country, they don’t count.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “So I’ve kissed _two_ people—”

“One,” he corrected. “You said McLaggen was awful, so he doesn’t count either.”

She raised her eyebrow again. “ _Riiiight_. So I’ve _just_ kissed Ron, meanwhile you’ve kissed Angelina, Alicia, Katie and… Oliver Wood.”

“Hey,” he said, putting up his hands and grinning. “Not my fault I’m irresistible.”

She scowled at him. “You’re pretty damn resistible right now, Fred Weasley.”

“Ah, what a shame,” he sighed, clicking his fingers. “I was gonna suggest evening the playing field.”

Hermione blinked at him. “What?”

“Well, in lieu of actually having a wreath like Luna’s…” Fred said slowly, looking up at her. He was still slouched against the counter, a full head lower than her. “…you could kiss _me_.”

There was a beat, another half-step, another stumble. Just slightly too long. Then he said, “You know, so you could get some _proper_ experience,” in that cheeky, irritating-but-charming way of his.

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Please don’t joke about this sort of thing, Fred,” she muttered. “It’s not exactly a confidence boost.” She knew better than to place her worth in what other people—especially men—thought of her, but that didn’t mean she didn’t. Between her own personal hang-ups about wanting to be liked, and being bombarded on all sides for nineteen years by expectations of what women should be—demure, polite, and above all, _beautiful_ —it was hard not to think in those terms sometimes.

Fred stood up from leaning on the counter and turned to her. “I’m not joking,” he said. His tone wasn’t exactly _earnest_ , as in there was no sense of pleading, but there wasn’t so much as a trace of sarcasm in there, either. He was, by the looks of things, being sincere. That was almost as unusual a colour as uncomfortable, but in a strange way, it suited him. “I said you’re an amazing witch, and I meant it. And if you wanted to kiss me… I’d let you.”

She looked at him. “You’d ‘let’ me?”

He cringed. “Okay, poor word choice. That’s on me.” He put up his hands again. “What I _meant_ to say was… if you wanted to kiss me… I’d kiss you back.”

Hermione thought back to all the books she’d read as a child—and there were a lot. A good chunk of them had been fictional, and often had had romantic subplots. And all of those books had been huge, impressive romances that swept women off their feet and bared men’s greatest vulnerabilities. Dramatic confessions through tears, passionate kisses after equally passionate arguments. And when her and Ron had kissed in the Battle of Hogwarts, she’d expected that she, too, would have a romance like that. A romance like all the books.

None of those books had had casual conversations in servants’ kitchens, and frank statements of wanting to kiss people. They’d been too small for the page. But now, sitting on this counter, looking at Fred’s bright blue eyes, seeing the sincerity of him and his words, it seemed enormous. Bigger than any of those dramatic romances, bigger than her kiss with Ron, bigger even than the semi-secret tryst with Viktor, where they’d had to try and keep things quiet, lest the Rita Skeeter types be after them and all their secret kisses. Bigger than anything that could be put to paper.

She thought about what Fred had said for a very long moment, so long that he began thinking he’d misread, miscalculated, and embarrassment was starting to set in. He was just about to step away, try to laugh it off and find a way to return to Monopoly without looking like a prick when Hermione said, “Do you want to kiss me?”

For a moment, he wasn’t sure if he’d imagined it or not. “Huh?” he said gracelessly.

“Do you _want_ to kiss me?” Hermione repeated, shrugging. She had both her hands braced on the edge of the counter, legs crossed at the ankle, swinging slightly. “Because I wouldn’t want to kiss anyone who didn’t also want to kiss me.”

He nodded. “I wouldn’t want to kiss anyone who didn’t want to kiss me, either,” he agreed.

She smiled. Ever so slightly. But it was there. Just a hint of mischief. That was what he liked about her so much. Everyone thought she was a goody-two-shoes, a swot, a teacher’s pet—and in some ways, she was. In some ways, she had been. There was no doubt she was wickedly smart, just as there was no doubting she was determined, and her determination to do everything to the best of her ability was what made her the brightest witch of her age, regardless of her (admittedly impressive) natural talent. But she had also set a teacher on fire in her first year, had trapped an illegal Animagus in a jar when said Animagus had pissed her off one too many times, had helped found an illegal anti-establishment group designed to defend Hogwarts against all enemies from both sides of the law, had used a NEWT level charm to organise said group, had tried to spark a revolution in one of the magical world’s most oppressed species, and had casually threatened the one thing in the world that could terrify him and George when she’d told them to stop testing their products on first years.

Maybe she wouldn’t like if he said it out loud, but Hermione was more similar to him and George than a lot of people realised—the main difference being that she cared about traditional academics, whereas he and George got their kicks along less orthodox pathways.

And that was to say nothing of how she _looked_. Much like Ron, Fred supposed, he’d realised just how pretty Hermione was at the Yule Ball. It hadn’t been so much that she’d had sleek, shiny hair or pretty dress robes (though they certainly hadn’t hurt) but that he’d first thought to think of her like that. Before, she’d just been Ron’s friend. Delightful company, like Harry, but Ron’s friend, in Ron’s year, and that meant she was two years younger than him and, categorically, a _kid_. Like Ginny. It simply hadn’t occurred to him to think of her in any other way.

But then she’d stepped out onto that dancefloor. And he’d realised, she was fifteen. And he’d been sixteen and that really wasn’t much difference at all. He’d never noticed how graceful she could be when she wasn't lugging around all those books. He’d never realised just how pretty her smile was, the way her nose crinkled a little, the way her eyes sparkled. Those soft brown eyes, he could get lost in them. Just like the mass of her curls. As they’d gotten older still, as she’d turned sixteen, seventeen, after he and George had left school, he’d found himself looking more and more. He’d imagined what her smile would look like when her lips were red with kisses, what the look in her eyes would be if he held her in his arms, the feel of those curls between his fingers, the feel of her fingers tangled in _his_ hair.

“Well, then,” Hermione said quietly. They were both suddenly so aware of how close they’d been standing, were still standing. This was one of the smaller rooms in the house and felt like it—mostly because it had a normal-heighted ceiling, but it was still plenty big enough for ten people to stand with enough space, let alone two.

She forced herself not to look away from him. There was something in his gaze that almost embarrassed her, made her want to look away and giggle and blush and find Ginny. But also… there was something that kept her there, entrancing her. Even as a part of her wanted to look at the rest of him.

If she had been asked at what point she began to think of Fred as anything other than Ron’s older brother, than a prankster, than Fred-and-George, she honestly didn’t know if she had an answer. It had been a slow thing, and then one day, all at once, she’d looked at him and really _seen_ him. As _him_ , not defined by his younger brother, or his twin, or anyone else. One day, she’d looked up, and found she wanted to keep looking. At how he, like Charlie—and, of course, George—had a stockier build than Bill, Percy and Ron, who were all very tall and wiry. At how he was corded with lean muscle from his days on the Quidditch pitch; mainly his arms and shoulders from beating away Bludgers, but also his legs, because he often had to take both hands off his broom. At the freckles that, as they’d gotten older, had started to confine themselves more to just his cheeks, but sometimes the collar of his shirt would be a bit low, and she would see more on his chest and shoulders. At the way he just lit up when something slightly dangerous and very daring happened, and the glitter in his blue eyes that made her want to know what happened when they grew dark with a different kind of intrigue.

And when she had, she’d noticed other things, too. How he was cheeky and boyish, but not immature. He and George knew where the line was, knew what was okay to poke fun at. How they were, actually, incredibly clever, they just simply didn’t care for school and exams. How he might tease Ron and Percy and all the others, but he was fiercely protective of all of his siblings. How he and George had been one of the few sparks of levity in a time that had been marked by death and fear.

How utterly devastated she’d been when they’d all thought he was dead.

He was still watching her, with those incredible eyes. It must’ve been magic, she though, because surely no one had eyes that blue. And his _hair_. Ron’s and even Ginny’s had gone a little darker as they’d gotten older, but his was as flagrantly orange as ever, almost as untidy as Harry’s, and just long enough that if she slid her hand into it, she’d have something to grab on to.

She barely heard herself as she continued speaking, almost feeling like she was watching from outside her own body. “…I guess we’ve reached a stalemate.”

Fred watched her, his gaze strangely intense. Maybe some part of her had thought this was a joke, but one look at his expression and she knew that it wasn’t. Outside of the war, she couldn't remember the last time she'd seen Fred completely serious like this. It was fascinating.

Just for an instant, he broke her gaze, and she felt herself give the smallest, stunned gasp when he glanced—just for a moment—at her lips.

“I might not be as good at chess as my brother, Hermione,” he murmured, “But I don’t think it’s a stalemate if we both win.”

She was slightly taller than standing when she sat on the countertop, so he didn’t have to duck his head very much to kiss her. The first touch of his lips against hers was gentle, almost hesitant. Testing the waters, giving her time to change her mind, to pull away. But she found she didn’t want to, and she leant forwards, closing what was left of the gap, kissing him decisively.

Fred pulled back, chuckling. She blinked, for a moment embarrassed, then scowled defensively. “What?”

He chucked again. “‘Mione,” he said, “It’s not a… you don’t have to be so…” He broke off, unable to find quite the right words. “Are you uncomfortable?” It had felt a little like she was enduring that, rather than enjoying it.

“No!” she exclaimed. “You just… you were being so careful. And I wanted to tell you that… that you didn’t need to be. I was okay with it.”

“ _Oh_ …” Something dark and vaguely predatory sparked in his eyes, and Hermione felt a shiver down her spine and concentrate in her abdomen. “I don’t need to be _careful_ , do I?”

Before she really had time to ask what exactly he meant by that, Fred had cupped one hand behind her head and kissed her again. This time it was fierce, eager, and she was suddenly very glad that she was sitting on a counter because if she’d been standing she would’ve stumbled. Emboldened, excited, she responded eagerly, suddenly needing him closer. When she parted her lips, deepening their kiss, he made a surprised—but pleased—sound and kissed her again hungrily. They found a rhythm, found themselves growing almost frantic, suddenly giving way to years’ worth of feelings they’d told themselves to push down, to push away, because it was never going to happen. And yet, it was. It was happening.

It was something akin to ravenous, moving in time with each other, devouring each other, his hand behind her head, the other curled around her back, fingers pressing into her spine. Hermione reached out to fist one hand in his shirt, pulling him closer, then when she realised her still-crossed legs were in the way, uncrossed them and hooked her ankles behind his legs, pulling him sharply forwards so his thighs pressed into the edge of the counter. That earned her a groan, only half-muffled by his mouth over hers, and when she nipped his bottom lip she swore he _shivered_ a little. Her other arm looped around his neck, pulling him close, and he tightened his arm around her waist, pulling her flush against him until she was balancing on the edge of the counter; if he pulled her one inch further, she’d have to wrap her legs around his hips to stay upright.

She’d be alright with that, if he did.

Without warning, Fred pulled back, and she panted for a second, about to ask why, then felt his lips on her throat. With a breathy sigh, she tipped her head back, one hand scratching lightly across his scalp, then tangling in his hair. She’d been right, there was just enough to give her something to hold on to. Her other hand was over his shoulder, scratching across his back and gripping the back of his shirt as if she thought she might fall, and maybe she would, she couldn’t really focus on anything but his lips right now. He found her pulse point and nipped her lightly, and she half-muffled a soft moan by biting her lip. Both of his hands were on her hips now, pulling her to him as he peppered the line of her neck, the hollow of her throat, the edge of her collarbone with his kisses.

When he came back up, he planted a soft, almost chaste kiss on her lips, and then they both seemed to realise what they’d just done, and giggled. He rested his forehead against hers, his hands still on her hips, hers still braced on the back of his neck and his shoulder.

“I’ve gotta say,” he muttered, “I’ve been dreaming about doing that for a while.”

Hermione opened her mouth to reply, but all that came out was another small giggle. She wondered how hard she was blushing. Probably very hard. “I’d be lying if I hadn’t thought the same, once in a while,” she admitted.

He grinned at her. She loved his grin, she thought. It was just the right combination of mischievous and handsome. No wonder he was magic—it was almost faelike, how he grinned. It made sense; he was a born trickster. “What do you think, then?” he asked, “Of your first proper kiss?”

“Not my first proper kiss,” she said, half in a sing-song, so he knew she wasn’t really annoyed. “And… I don’t know.” She tried for a mischievous smile of her own. “I might need another just to be sure.”

“Just to be sure,” he agreed, and he leant down again. She tilted her head up to meet his lips, and this time it was less heated, but more playful. The initial rush had subsided; this was slower, sweeter. Hermione kissed a trail of feather light kisses from the corner of his mouth, down his throat, to the topmost tip of a scar, just peeking out the collar of his shirt. She felt his breath hitch when she did, felt it hitch again when she caught his earlobe between her teeth.

“You cheeky little witch,” he muttered, maybe trying for an indignant tone, but the catch in voice made it sound more like a plea. She leant back and smirked at him, but he smirked right back. “Made up your mind yet?” he asked, “Or are you still unsure?”

She cocked her head, thoughtful. “I think I’m sure,” she said, one of her hands moving from around his neck to trace the collar of his shirt. He almost never wore t-shirts these days—not that he would right now, as it was December and even magically-augmented townhouses could get chilly—and she suspected it was because of the scars, because also he never rolled his sleeves back above the elbows.

“Ah, a shame,” he lamented. He made to continue but she cut him off with another kiss, short and sweet. He blinked at her, caught a little off guard. She just grinned again.

From the floor above, there was another indignant yell, quickly followed by footsteps as someone came downstairs to the kitchen. Fred leapt back from Hermione, grabbing his mostly-empty cider bottle and sitting on the table, feet on the bench. Hermione grabbed her own bottle and crossed her legs. A moment later, Harry came in, threw an empty bottle into the recycling bin, and went towards the fridge.

“Your brother just cleaned me out,” he said, mildly-irritated, from inside the fridge.

Fred raised his eyebrows. “Which one?”

With a half-amused sigh, Harry closed the fridge door and handed a bottle to Hermione. As she slid off the counter to notch the cap, he said, “Ron, believe it or not. He made a comeback.”

“Impressive,” Fred remarked. “I might ask him to look over the finances for the shop.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “George said—thanks, Hermione—George said the same thing,” he replied, taking a swig. “You guys gonna come back upstairs? I feel like it’ll come down to something vicious.”

“I hear that’s a key feature of Monopoly,” Fred said brightly, looking to Hermione. His expression was pleasant enough, but she could read between the lines. _Do you want to go upstairs? Do you want_ me _to go upstairs?_

“Uh, we’ll be up in a few Harry,” Hermione said, relieved that it was him who’d come down and not Ron, who’d probably notice something was off, or George, who’d _definitely_ notice something was off. Harry just nodded and went back up the stairs.

Fred, still sitting on top of the table, cocked his head at her. “You alright?”

She smiled, a little shaky. “Oh, I’m fine,” she replied. “Just… I dunno. Do we need to talk?”

He shrugged. “Do you _want_ to talk?”

His meaning was clear. If she wanted, if she said she didn’t want another kiss, or anything like that, he would drop it. It would never be spoken of again, and it would be finished. She had to admit, there was a little relief in knowing that, for reasons she wasn’t quite sure of.

“Um…” she said, and began picking at the label on her bottle again. “I don’t… _think_ we need to talk. Do you?”

Fred smiled. It was a warm, easy thing. Comforting. It was unmistakable that he was a big brother, seeing that smile. “I’m easy,” he said, then winked cheekily, and she laughed. “Seriously, though,” he then said, once again growing sincere, “I go with the flow. I don’t mind.”

“Interesting…” she said thoughtfully, “Then maybe we can do something else to fill the time.”

He grinned at her, brazen and lascivious. “ _Merlin_ , I like the way you think,” he muttered, getting up so he was stood before her again, neatly between her legs. She dug her heels lightly into the back of his knees and smirked, grabbing a fistful of his shirt and pulling him down not _quite_ enough to reach.

“Luckily for you,” she purred, “I do that a lot.”

* * *

Frankly, Hermione thought, she shouldn’t have been surprised. Fred had said as much that he told George everything, and she hardly expected him to stop doing that just because _she_ was involved. Besides, George could keep a secret. Though, she then thought, if it turned out that he’d said something to Angelina, she’d be having words.

“I _was_ listening,” George told her lightly. “I may only have the one ear, now, but it works just fine.”

“I’m sure that’s what Angie says when you forget to do the dishes,” Ginny drawled, and he stuck his tongue out at her. She stuck her tongue out back, and Luna giggled.

“Anyway,” George continued, turning back to Hermione. “My dear, less-attractive twin is not in the room with us. Or had that escaped your notice?”

Hermione thought for a moment about how to respond, then said, “Not all of us are as oblivious as Harry.”

“Hey!”

“Alas, the lady speaks the truth,” George lamented. Harry rolled his eyes, then went back to talking with Hagrid. He was bouncing Teddy up and down on his knee as Mr Weasley handed Andromeda a dram of Firewhisky. “So, dear Hermione, no questions about where my ne’er-do-well brother is?”

“Oh, I’m sure he’ll turn up,” she replied. “Bad pennies tend to do that.”

Ginny let out a bark of laughter. “Ooh, be careful, George,” she warned, delighted. “She might not have red hair, but she’s just as fiery as me.”

“I would my horse had the speed of your tongue and so good a continuer,” George said in an agreeing tone. Ginny looked at him, baffled, but Hermione—and strangely enough, Luna—both looked mildly impressed.

“ _Much Ado About Nothing_ ,” Hermione remarked. “I didn’t know you’d read it.”

George shrugged. “Like you said, Muggles have better fiction.”

Luna nodded. She had read most of Shakespeare’s work—though she didn’t much care for _Titus Andronicus_. “Such a horse would be beyond even the talents of your magic, I imagine, Hermione,” she said. “Quick as you are.”

At that, Ginny understood what they were all getting at, and laughed. “Quick-witted? How very Ravenclaw of you, ‘Mione,” she remarked. “Should we start dressing you in blue and bronze?”

“Well, I hear blue is her colour,” George said with a shrug, taking another sip of his drink. “Especially if it’s periwinkle.”

Feeling a little as though she had fallen into one of the Shakespearean wit-offs that George had first quoted, Hermione downed the last mouthful of her piña colada and stood up from her seat. “I’m going to get another drink.”

“Mind you don’t cut anyone’s lips on that sharp little tongue of yours,” George called after her, laughing as he slid off the arm of the sofa and onto the cushion she’d just vacated, Ginny and Luna giggling. Despite the blush that was definitely creeping across Hermione’s face, she, too, couldn’t help but smile. It really _was_ nice to be back with everyone.

Walking into the hallway, she initially made a beeline for the downstairs kitchen, but was distracted when she noticed someone sitting on the staircase.

“Fred!” she exclaimed lightly. He had a pensive expression on his face, but when she said his name and he looked up, it turned into a beaming smile.

“‘Mione!” he said delightedly, jumping to his feet and pulling her into a hug. He wrapped his arms around her waist and picked her up, spinning her around once, then when he put her back down, ducked to kiss her.

Hermione grinned against his mouth, throwing her arms around his neck and pulling him close. It was a slow, luxurious kiss, unconcerned with time passing. One of her hands slid up into his hair, and his fingers pressed into her spine and she curved into him, fitting against him so perfectly. When they finally parted, she put a hand to his cheek, stroking her thumb over his cheekbone, over a tiny, almost invisible scar under his left eye.

“I missed you,” he murmured.

“I missed you, too,” she replied. “How was your Christmas?”

He smiled. “Would’ve been better if I had someone to kiss under the mistletoe.”

“My apologies. Would you settle for one at midnight?” she offered, and he smirked.

“I might need more than one,” he warned, giving a flash of his boyish grin. Moving so he was stood behind her rather than in front, he wrapped his arms around her waist and rested his chin on her shoulder. “How was yours?”

She hummed, pretending to think. “Much the same, I imagine. Though I don’t remember seeing much mistletoe in Australia.”

“And Hogsmeade?”

At that, she sighed. “ _Definitely_ would’ve been better with someone to kiss under the mistletoe,” she teased. “But I got to see Rosemerta and McGonagall and everyone. Sprout hired Neville as a Herbology Professor.” This was something that had interested her greatly. A hundred years ago, Hogwarts had had a lot more teachers, but after the first war there had been significant reduction of staff. What had previously been the work of entire departments had become the work for a single teacher. Neville was the first of what would hopefully be many new hires in the years to come. McGonagall had even hinted at Hermione becoming a Transfiguration Professor—if she so wished.

Fred grinned into her shoulder. “I bet he’ll be great,” he said, “You reckon he’ll wave the sword around at any rowdy students?”

She laughed. “I think he’s coming later, you can ask him yourself.”

“I don’t know, I might be busy with other stuff,” he said. “Maybe have Harry ask him for me.” He turned his head slightly and pressed a gentle kiss to the side of her neck. “I didn’t hear you arrive,” he murmured. “When did you get here?”

“Oh, twenty minutes?” she shrugged. “George ushered me downstairs for a drink as soon as I walked in, near enough—which reminds me, did you tell him?”

Fred sighed, and she felt a puff of warm air over her shoulder. “Honestly, I think he already knew something was up, he’d just never bothered to ask. I told him ‘officially’ last week.” He took his hands from around her waist to make air-quotes. “And I asked him not to be weird about it, but…”

“He’s a Weasley twin?” she offered dryly, turning to face him, and he gave her a sly, cheeky smile.

“Yeah, something like that. You’re not upset, are you?” he then asked, a hint of panic in his eyes.

Hermione shook her head quickly. “Oh, no!” she said, “Not at all. I just… wasn’t expecting it.” She hugged him around the waist, but didn’t pull in too close, so she could still meet his eyes. “He’s your twin brother, Fred, I don’t expect you to start keeping secrets from him just for my sake.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Just for your sake?” he echoed. “I don’t think you’re doing yourself justice there, love. Your sake is worth quite a lot to me.” He leant forwards to gently bump his forehead against hers.

She smiled, deeply flattered. “Still, I don’t want you to feel like you have to choose between him and me. That’s not how this works,” she added, taking one of his hands to intertwine their fingers. “This is supposed to be _fun_.”

Fred grinned at her, and gave her hand a quick, affectionate squeeze. “Lucky for you, fun happens to be my specialty.”

That earned him another small laugh. Merlin, he loved her laugh. He hadn’t heard it nearly enough when they’d been at school—for a great number of reasons; they hadn’t spent all that much time together, their final years had been shadowed by the looming threat of Voldemort and his Death Eaters, and so on. But now, he made it a personal, private mission to hear her laugh as often as possible. His very purpose in life was to bring laughter, it was the basis of his entire business, the bedrock of his reputation in school, the single most defining trait of him and George. They were funny. They made people _laugh_.

And he loved little more than hearing Hermione’s laugh in particular. Each time he made her laugh it felt like a little victory, tallied onto his heart.

“Speaking of us having fun together,” he then said in a scandalous sort of voice, and she gave him a dry look, one eyebrow already rising. He rolled his eyes. “I’m not suggesting we go up to the room you’re staying in and shag,” he said, faux-exasperated. “Well, not right now at least. Talk to me after we’ve had a few.” He winked roguishly and she sighed, but she was smiling, too. “I was _going_ to say that, on account of George finally popping the question to Angie, and her saying yes, they’ll be moving in together. I suggested they take the flat in Hogsmeade, since it’s bigger, and I can move back to the one in London.”

Hermione thought about this for a moment. “The one in Diagon Alley?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Only a few streets over from my new flat?”

“Yes.”

A grin spread across her face. He loved her grin, too. She had a dimple on her left cheek, but only when she smiled very broadly. Each time he made it show, that was another small thrill of victory another small tally. “That _does_ sound like fun.”

Another suggestion hovered at the front of Fred’s mind, but he wasn’t nearly as certain that it would be well-received. It had also been on his mind for a lot longer than the week since Christmas, and was all the heavier for it. For the better part of the last year, he and Hermione had carried on what, by all accounts, was a secret romance.

They hadn’t _intended_ for it to be a secret, or a romance, but things had just sort of… happened. And then they’d kept happening, and the pair of them had found they actually really _liked_ the things that were happening. On the weekends, mostly, she had come down from Hogwarts to see him in Hogsmeade, and after she’d graduated, he’d begun spending more weekends in London with George, and it just so happened that he’d often come to Grimmauld Place to see Harry and Hermione, too. That was when George had no doubt put it together, because it was a lot easier to hide your romantic exploits when they were happening five-hundred miles north of the people you were trying to hide them from.

However, over the past several months, Fred had become increasingly aware that he was actually quite terrible at hiding things from his twin—and really, after spending twenty years telling their every secret to one another, was it remotely surprising? He knew George better than he knew himself, sometimes and vice-versa.

Plus, he had also become increasingly aware that he didn’t particularly _want_ to hide it anymore.

But, after a year of not really paying attention to the habits they were setting, it was difficult to break out of said habits. And he really didn’t want to do anything that might jeopardise the relationship itself. He liked Hermione, he liked her a lot—Merlin, he _loved_ her, and he knew she loved him, too, even if they’d never actually said it aloud. No, that would make things very, very real, very, very fast. It would turn whatever this was between them from an ‘I would like to tell everyone’ to a ‘we _need_ to tell everyone’ and even _he_ wasn’t too sure about that. He’d promised to go at Hermione’s pace, and he kept his promises.

Things were great— _wonderful_ , really, and above else, neither of them wanted to screw it up.

“So,” he said, deciding not to brave that, not just yet at least, because tonight was meant to be fun, and there would be time enough for difficult conversations. “I could… come visit you when I move back?” He ducked his head _just_ enough to brush his lips over her ear.

Hermione smiled, biting her lip to stop the little shiver running down her spine. “I visited you in Hogsmeade,” she said, “Only seems fair to return the favour.”

* * *

There was a cheerful jingle when Hermione pushed open the door of the shop and stepped inside, a sharp January chill nipping at her heels. The inside of the shop had been completely repainted to match its twin— _appropriate_ , she thought—down in Diagon Alley but had yet to be stocked. The first Hogsmeade weekend of term was not for another two weeks, and term didn’t start for another three days, but there was nothing stopping her from Apparating back a little early.

At the sound of the bell, there was a shout from behind the thick red curtain that hid the back room. “Sorry, sorry! We’re not actually open! Please—come back in a couple—oh. Hermione.” Fred appeared in the doorway behind the register counter, holding a cardboard box, wand tucked behind his ear. He was wearing a violet button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled back and—unusually—the top button was undone. Hermione immediately realised that that meant he had to be alone in the shop and George was in London. Fred didn’t normally unbutton his shirt these days, even just the top one.

She raised a hand, somewhat awkwardly. “Uh… hi!” she said. “I just thought I’d come by and see how things were going, but…” She looked at the bare shelves, the boxes piled up in one corner. “I can come back later if you’re busy—”

“No!” he said loudly. “I mean, no, no, you’re more than welcome. Please, uh…” He pulled his wand from behind his ear and waved it. A barstool appeared next to the register counter. “…have a seat.”

Amused, Hermione perched on the bar stool. It was the perfect height to rest her elbows on the counter, and she watched as Fred shuffled boxes around the back room, the velvet curtain now pinned out of the way. “Where’s George?” she asked.

“Oh, he’s busy in London,” Fred answered. “All the post-Christmas sales and whatnot. Angie’s helping out whilst I get everything sorted here—but he’s coming up for the grand opening on the sixteenth.”

“First Hogsmeade weekend,” Hermione noted. “Coincidence?”

“I don’t believe in coincidence,” Fred replied. His head popped out of the doorway then, a wry smirk on his face. “Speaking of which, by what ‘coincidence’ does a ravishing young witch happen to walk into my shop?”

She pointed over her shoulder with her thumb. “A January snowstorm in the Highlands,” she deadpanned. He laughed.

“Yeah, that’d push just about anyone inside,” he agreed. “If you like, when I’m done here, we can go to the Three Broomsticks?” His real question was implicit; _do you want to talk with me, or are you just popping in to say hello?_

Hermione smiled. “That sounds nice,” she agreed.

He grinned. “Excellent. Nothing like a Butterbeer to warm you up—and nothing like Butterbeer from the Three Broomsticks. Let me just finish organising these boxes—we have another load of stock coming in tomorrow, so I really need to make sure everything’s in the right place,” he explained.

The next several minutes were filled with assorted rummaging noises, accompanied by squeaks and pops and bangs as he moved boxes. When he finally re-emerged, his shirt button was done up and he was pulling on a burgundy jacket and a Gryffindor scarf. Hermione vanished her stool and they ventured out into the biting cold down the street. Inside the Three Broomsticks was much warmer and much livelier than the new Wheezes shop, and they both gave an appreciative sigh as they shrugged off their jackets.

“Fred Weasley!” came a voice, and they both looked up to see Madam Rosmerta marching over to them, hands on her hips and a smile on her face. “I was wondering when your new shop would send you my way. How’s it coming along?”

“Marvellously!” Fred answered, beaming from ear to ear. “Can I hope to see you in there sometime, Madam? Payback for all the time I’ve spent here?”

Rosmerta laughed. “You can hope all you like, I never set a foot in there when it was Zonko’s and I shan’t set a foot in there when it’s Weasleys’.” Hermione burst out laughing, which earned her a friendly wink from Rosmerta. “Sit anywhere there’s space, dears.”

Luckily, a small booth in the back corner was free. Hermione often used it for studying since it was more secluded than the rest of the pub, though fitting two people in was a slight squeeze. Rosmerta came over with two Butterbeers, and like he’d done in Grimmauld Place’s kitchen less than two weeks ago, Fred angled his bottle towards Hermione, and they tapped the necks together in a toast.

“Happy New Year, Hermione,” he said.

“Happy New Year,” she agreed, and they both drank. There had been several points during the past year where they’d thought they would never live to see 1999, and for that, sipping a Butterbeer in her favourite booth in her favourite pub with one of her favourite people was all the nicer. So was the knowledge that, this year, she could all but guarantee that no one would be out to kill her or those she cared about.

Fred grinned at her. “So, did you make any New Year’s resolutions?” he asked.

She shrugged. “Oh, the usual,” she said airily, “Defeat a dark wizard bent on fascist dictatorship, save your little brother’s skin, pass my exams with flying colours.” She gave him a broad grin.

He laughed. Anyone who thought Hermione Granger was a stick-in-the-mud had clearly never bothered giving her a proper look. “Those aren’t resolutions, especially not for you,” he told her. He leant back against the booth, resting both arms along the back of the seat. Behind his head, on the wall, was a photo of the Three Broomsticks when it had first opened. A younger, but no less lovely Madam Rosmerta smiled proudly out of the frame, hands on her hips. “Come on, you can do better than that.”

She stuck her tongue out at him, then took another drink of Butterbeer. “Alright then,” she said, “What’re _your_ resolutions?”

At that, Fred shrugged. “Turn Wheezes Hogsmeade into as roaring a success as Wheezes London,” he answered smoothly. “And another thing, but you’ll have to buy me something a lot stronger than _this_ to get it out of me.” He wiggled his Butterbeer at her, then took a drink.

“Er, who said I was buying?” Hermione said archly, and he grinned at her, then planted a quick kiss on her cheek—so quick she didn’t have time to react. She blushed.

“Believe me, you’ll want to find it out,” Fred told her, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively, but it just made her laugh.

“Will I, now?” she challenged. “I think _I’ll_ need a few drinks before we get to that point, Fred Weasley.”

He spread his hands as best he could in the cramped booth. “I’m happy to oblige, Hermione. Me and George are on the cusp of a _very_ lucrative business investment. Zonko’s made a _killing_ here—imagine what we can do!”

“I dread it,” she said dryly, taking another drink. “But I’ll come for the grand opening.” She thought of the shop in Diagon Alley. “I can’t wait to see how it looks when it’s fully up and running.”

“Me neither,” he said, grinning at the mere thought of it. “We’ll probably only have it open during term-time—not much business here over the summer holidays—but Gred reckons we’ll make even more money than in Diagon Alley.”

Hermione looked at him, amused. “The beginning of an empire,” she said, rising her bottle as if saluting.

Fred gave her a sideways glance and a smile that was slyer than his usual boyish grin. “You know…” he told her in a voice that somehow reminded her of the Butterbeer they were drinking. “There’s a flat above the new shop, just like in London. It’s much bigger than the one in London, though. And nicer. Lower real estate prices.”

She looked at him. “Are you trying to seduce me by talking about Hogsmeade’s real estate prices?”

Fred went a little red, but his smooth, suave demeanour didn’t flinch. “You mean you _don’t_ find affordable, well-styled property sexy?” he asked, not at all convincing her with his innocent tone. She bit her lip, but she still couldn’t hold back the laugh.

He grinned. “Seriously, it’s great. I think George wants to swap places when he and Angelina move in together. Hogsmeade is much more suited to family-life.”

Hermione stared at him. “George and Angelina are talking about kids?”

“Well, I don’t know if _Angelina_ is,” Fred admitted. “But Georgie’s definitely thinking of marrying her, and this place _is_ a lot better if you want kiddiewinks. And so close to Hogwarts!”

“Merlin, imagine having your parents live in Hogsmeade,” Hermione muttered, and Fred’s eyes went wide.

“Oh, you’re right!” he exclaimed, then cackled. “Those poor bastards! Ah, Angie’s alright, she’ll stop Gred from embarrassing them _too_ much.” From the way he was grinning, Hermione suspected _Fred_ would be more likely to embarrass those kids. It wouldn’t be that different, she supposed, to embarrassing Ron. “Of course,” he then said, “That’s not for at least a couple years. I’ll be living in Hogsmeade most of the time until then.”

Hermione raised an eyebrow, sensing he was going to make a point, but not wanting to be presumptuous in trying to guess what exactly that point _was_.

“And,” he went on, “Since you’re of age—” Students aged seventeen and older were permitted to visit Hogsmeade on any weekend, not just officially designated ones, so long as they notified a teacher that they were leaving school grounds. “—maybe we could… meet up now and then.”

She watched him look at her, waiting for an answer. She didn’t give one right away, instead taking another long drink from her Butterbeer. Then, finally, she said, “When you say ‘we’—?”

“Me and you,” Fred clarified. “ _Just_ me and you. Not Harry and Gin and Luna. Well, sometimes, for sure. I like hanging out with them. But, er, in this sense, I just meant you. And me. Obviously.”

Hermione was a little taken aback by this. It took a lot—a _lot_ —to have Fred Weasley fumbling over his words. She’d never seen him do it at school, always so effortlessly confident, casual and teasing. She was pretty sure he and George had reminded the teachers of James Potter and his Marauders—but it made sense, considering they were very much the Marauders spiritual successors, defined perhaps most clearly by their smuggling the Map out of Filch’s office in their first year. Though Fred hadn’t become an Animagus, or created a map that could track any wizard in Hogwarts, he _had_ figured out how to work such a map, and created a truly staggering number of ridiculous-but-nonetheless-incredibly-magically-complex items _like_ the Map, and joined the Order of the Phoenix against Voldemort’s tyranny.

She wondered where that left her; the talented Muggle-born witch who had no patience for prejudice, who’d been just as willing to fight in the Order’s name, who’d been exasperated by the smooth-talking prankster’s charms, until… she hadn’t.

“Obviously,” she echoed, and he tried to read her expression for a clue as to what she was thinking. It was a very carefully neutral expression, then she said, “We haven’t had a conversation alone since the twenty-third, have we?”

They hadn’t, and both of them had noticed. On Christmas Eve, scores of people had come to Grimmauld Place for the first Christmas since the end of the war. All the Weasleys (even Charlie), Hagrid, Kingsley, Luna, Lavender, Neville, Dean and Seamus, Andromeda and little Teddy, even Krum. Even McGonagall. Even _Mundungus_. Grimmauld Place had, for possibly the first time ever, been full not just with people, but with laughter.

 _Very_ full. Fred and Hermione had literally not had a moment to themselves, to talk about what had happened, or to repeat what had happened. And, when everyone had left on the twenty-seventh, that had included Fred and George, who’d come right to Hogsmeade to continue the work on the new shop. Hermione, meanwhile, had thrown herself into her schoolwork, and they’d both been too busy even to write letters to one another.

New Year’s had been a quieter affair than Christmas; Hermione and Harry had gone to the Burrow, but Fred and George had been too busy finalising buying the shop to stay more than a few hours in the evening—they hadn’t even stayed the night, Apparating back to Hogsmeade at three in the morning. Not that their staying overnight would’ve mattered. Sure, there’d been fewer people, but the Burrow was a lot smaller, and Mrs Weasley had either exceptionally good timing (or exceptionally bad, depending on how you looked at it) when it came to randomly bursting into rooms without warning. She’d borne six sons and she made damn sure none of _them_ bore any sons (or daughters) whilst they lived under _her_ roof, thank you very much.

“We haven’t,” Fred agreed. “Do you… want to?”

“Fred,” Hermione said flatly. “I walked here from Hogwarts. Through a January snowstorm. It wasn’t _just_ to sneak a peek at your new shop.”

That tiny scrap of worry in his eyes suddenly melted as he grinned. “Excellent point,” he remarked, and took another swig of Butterbeer. “Allow me to ask a more astute question: would you like to do anything else?”

Hermione had to bite her lip to keep from grinning, but it didn’t really work. “I’d like to see the flat above your shop,” she said, realising how suggestive that sounded when, really, she was just nosy when it came to seeing other people’s homes. She liked interior design.

Fred chuckled. “What the lady likes, she shall have,” he announced gallantly, raising his Butterbeer aloft as though it were a sword. She laughed.

“How generous, good sir. I like the sound of that,” she remarked. “But first, I think I want food.”

Fred nodded. “Then the lady shall have food,” he said, and this time she blushed, because he met her eyes when he said it, and something about the way he looked at her made her go red.

They ordered another Butterbeer each, then another, then another. Sometime during all that, they did indeed have some food, and whilst it was delicious, they both agreed that Mrs Weasley’s was superior.

“I didn’t think I’d miss much about home until I left,” Fred admitted as he fished out his coin purse to pay for their meal. “Oh, no, don’t you dare,” he said, when he saw Hermione reach for hers. “Put that away. I’m nothing if not a gentleman.”

“Since when?” she asked cheekily, but she didn’t protest in earnest and put her purse back.

Fred continued, “But then I _did_ leave home—like, me and George got the shop in Diagon Alley, and we were fully moved out—and it was so _weird_. Like, I’ve never been in a place that’s just me and George before—hell, I’ve never had a room all to _myself_ before! And ever since I came back here, I’ve been _completely_ on my own because George’s managing the one in London; _that’s_ been _really_ weird. And I realised as much as I like the space, the independence…”

“You miss the company?” Hermione suggested, and he nodded. “I felt that way after coming home each summer,” she confessed. “I got so used to sharing with Lavender and Parvati and the others… it felt a little bit lonely to be sleeping in a room all by myself during the holidays.”

“Merlin, I can’t imagine being an only child,” Fred remarked, counting out coins for their food and drink, then adding an extra Galleon. “I mean, I’m a _twin_ , but even then I can’t imagine it just being me and George. Not that I’d want it to be like that, mind,” he added. Though he’d still probably rather _not_ admit that to any of his siblings with actual words.

“I can’t imagine what it would be like to _not_ be an only child,” Hermione replied. “I don’t know if I would _want_ to change it, exactly. I love Harry and Ginny and everyone, but… I didn’t literally grow up with them.” She thought for a moment. “I wonder if I’d be very different if I had…”

“Well, if you were anything like how you are, you’d be wonderful,” Fred said charmingly, throwing her another wink.

“Fred Weasley,” she said in a mock-scandalised tone, “Are you trying to woo me with pretty comments and fancy dinners?”

He grinned. “I’m trying to show a lovely young witch what kind of treatment she should expect from any self-respecting wizard, actually,” he corrected. “And if said lovely young witch happens to be more endeared to me by the end of the night… I’m certainly not complaining.” He slid out of the boot and threw on his scarf and coat. “Now,” he said, extending an arm. “You wanted to see the flat?”

* * *

“I’LL GET IT!”

Fred and Hermione leapt apart when they heard Harry yell from the living room, and a moment later he emerged in the hallway, making a beeline for the front door. He barely seemed to notice that Hermione and Fred were even _in_ the hallway as he unlocked the door to reveal Neville and Hannah, wearing huge woolly hats and even bigger smiles.

“Happy New Year, Harry!” Neville said, pulling Harry into a hug. Harry laughed and patted him heartily on the back, then hugged Hannah, who was less boisterous but no less happy to see him.

“Glad you could make it,” Harry said, ushering them in. “Everyone’s in the living room and—oh! Fred! Hermione! Didn’t see you there!”

At the sound of Fred and Hermione’s names, Hannah and Neville looked down the hallway, and were all dragged into energetic hugs by Neville. He could, Fred reckoned, give Mrs Weasley a run for her money.

“It’s good to see you,” Hermione said warmly to Hannah, squeezing her shoulders. “How’ve things been?”

Hannah shrugged. “Oh, the usual,” she said breezily. “Herbology, Healing, Herbology, Healing.” She gestured a hand back and forth and gave a small laugh. “Though the fact we can’t Apparate on or off Hogwarts grounds _has_ been a bit tricky. This is the first night in two weeks me and Neville will have spent sleeping in the same room!”

“Aw, I’m sorry to hear that,” Hermione said, genuinely sympathetic, but also suddenly wondering if there was a way she and Fred could feasibly sleep in the same bed. It would be nice if they could. She’d been so busy these past few months with school, and _he’d_ been so busy with the shop, they’d hardly seen one another.

With another small laugh, Hannah waved this aside. “It’s alright, really. I’m thinking of applying to be an assistant of Madam Pomfrey, actually, once I finish training at St Mungo’s. The infirmary could use a few extra hands, I really don’t know how she’s managed so long on her own.”

“Magic,” Hermione suggested, and they both laughed.

“‘Mione!” Neville said brightly, extricating himself from Fred and Harry. “It’s been bloody ages, how’ve you been! I hear you’re doing _Muggle_ school, now!”

Hermione grinned. Out of all their Hogwarts classmates, she reckoned, Neville had changed the most, especially over the past two years. Sometimes she could hardly see the timid little boy who’d dreaded Potions and repeatedly lost his toad—or, to be more accurate, she _could_ , because that was the boy who had endeavoured above all else to be kind, and to help those that needed it, and that occasionally included lopping the head off a bloody great snake like a figure out of myth.

“I am,” she confirmed. “Someone in the Department of Magical Education is helping me fast-track my, er, Muggle NEWTs so I can do higher study at a university.” After six months of explaining it to the Weasleys, Luna, and pretty much everyone in her life except Harry, she’d learned how to condense the explanation of her educational plans down to a single sentence.

Neville grinned at her. “Of course you’d want to do more school,” he said, and one of the things Hermione had always liked so much about Neville was that he’d said the same things as Harry and Ron, but always in markedly different tones. Harry and Ron, however well-meaning, would’ve sounded rueful, or sarcastic. Neville just sounded pleased that she was doing something she enjoyed.

“You’re one to talk,” she said with a laugh, “How’s teaching going?”

“Oh, well enough,” he smiled, as Harry and Hannah began chatting and they all wandered into the living room. “I’m mostly teaching first- and second- years, really, but I should be helping out some of the higher levels next year.”

“Neville!” Ginny yelled, jumping to her feet. If not for the fact that Luna had also leapt up upon seeing Hannah, she might’ve been shoved to the floor. Just as they had when Hermione had arrived, everyone cheered and called out greetings as Hannah and Neville made the rounds, informing people what they’d been up to, accepting offers of drinks, and finally squeezing onto a stuffed armchair exactly like the one Mr and Mrs Weasley were sitting on, helpfully conjured by Bill.

“Hey,” Neville then said, looking around the room. Mr Weasley passed him a tumbler of Firewhisky and he grinned in thanks. Hermione never would’ve guessed that Neville Longbottom had a taste for the finer things, particularly fine whisky, but life was full of surprises, she supposed. “Where’s Ron?”

“Oh, he and Lavender got held up at St Mungo’s,” Harry answered, grinning. “Turns out Lavender’s having twins!”

Hannah’s jaw dropped. “Oh my _god!_ ” she cried. “I—congratulations to them!”

“Yeah, they’re in for a real handful,” Fred agreed. Hermione wondered if anyone would buy the fact that he was sitting on the arm of the sofa—like how George had done earlier—because there were no others seats, given that Bill had just conjured an armchair. Then she wondered if the finite size of the living room could be taken as an excuse not to put too much furniture in it. Then she wondered if she was maybe overthinking things and should just enjoy being able to sit next to him, resting her arm on his leg.

“More than _a_ handful,” said Mrs Weasley archly, and everyone laughed.

Neville, looking quite stunned himself, put his arm around Hannah’s shoulders. “Do you reckon Lavender will be in need of a midwife?” he asked.

Hannah laughed. “Oh, I doubt she’d want me, I’m not specialising in midwifery.”

“I don’t know,” Hermione said. “Having someone you know well and trust can work wonders for keeping a new mother calm and happy—well, as happy as you _can_ be when you’re pushing a baby out of you,” she added, grimacing a little.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Hannah remarked in an amused tone, raising her eyebrows. “Anyway. Hermione, have _you_ got any news—babies or otherwise?”

“Good lord, I hope not!” she exclaimed, “I’ve been drinking every day for the past two weeks!”

Ginny and Luna then suddenly turned to look at her in almost eerie unison. “Is,” Ginny began, cocking her head, “There a reason why you might have cause to think that’s a possibility?” she asked, much too innocently. There was no mistaking she was Fred and George’s little sister from how she grinned at Hermione; the similarity was downright creepy.

Hermione went a little pink. “No, of course not,” she said lightly. “But, er, every woman has that fear now and then, doesn’t she? A little late and suddenly she’s Mary.”

All the women in the room laughed, whilst all the men frowned at one another, hoping in vain that someone might explain what Hermione meant.

“Oh!” Ginny exclaimed, in a slightly lower tone so none of the adults—namely Mrs Weasley—could hear. “Don’t tell me you’ve _still_ not found anyone to rock your boat?”

“I get seasick,” Hermione deadpanned. She did, terribly so, but that obviously wasn’t what Ginny was asking, and they both knew it.

“And you’re sure you’re not into _different_ modes of transport?” Luna asked with an unusually sly smile. Ginny was rubbing off on her, Hermione thought. And what a terrifying thought that was.

Hermione snorted. “ _Quite_ sure,” she said, leaning back, which—she realised a moment too late—meant leaning more heavily on Fred’s leg.

“‘Mione, you haven’t got a drink!” Fred then announced, standing up and subsequently pulling his leg out from underneath her arm.

George looked at them both from across the room, smiling in a dangerous sort of way. “Hey, what gives?” he asked. “You left to get a drink, like, ten minutes ago!”

“I—I got distracted by Hannah and Neville arriving,” Hermione said quickly, watching Fred snigger as he headed down to the kitchen, holding her piña colada glass.

George cocked his head. “Now that _is_ strange,” he remarked. “Because I thought Neville and Hannah only arrived just now.”

Hermione scowled at him, deeply, but luckily he didn’t press any further, and everyone else was too involved in their own conversations to really be paying attention. Angelina tapped George on the arm and muttered, “Leave her be,” but she was smiling. Turning to Hermione—and quite obviously steering the conversation away from when Hannah and Neville had arrived all the implications therein—Angelina said, “I hear you just moved to a flat near Diagon Alley.”

Exhaling relievedly, Hermione nodded. “I love Harry, and it was great to have this place when I was at Hogwarts, but I wanted a place that was…” _More private_. “Closer to the wizarding part of London.”

Angelina nodded. “Fair enough. Also, if I’m being honest, this place is still a bit too creepy to live long term.” Hermione knew she was thinking about the portrait of Walburga in the hallway—she really needed to talk to Harry about him just taking out that wall and turning the sitting room on the other side of said wall into a larger (and portrait free) entrance hall.

“But it’s a shame,” Angelina continued. “Me and George are moving up to the shop in Hogsmeade, we won’t be able to see you very often.”

“Oh, there’s always Apparition,” Hermione smiled. Divination aside, she had never encountered a form of magic she hadn’t eventually learned to master, and Apparition across several hundred miles, whilst difficult, was completely possible with enough training. And, preferably, few or no passengers. “But yeah, Fred mentioned the two of you were taking the bigger flat.” She smiled wryly. “It’s very close to Hogwarts.”

“Merlin, Hermione!” George exclaimed, clutching a hand to his chest. “You’ll give a man a heart attack with assumptions like that!”

He made a face that was, Hermione was pretty sure, absolutely nothing like the face one would make if they were _actually_ having a heart attack. Hermione rolled her eyes as Angelina said, “Oh, stuff it, you,” in a fond tone. “I know you’ve already picked out a dozen names—I hope you just plan on giving our kids three middle names each!”

“One each and then we’ll reuse them,” George replied, grinning, then ducking to kiss her.

“You are _not_ putting me through a dozen kids,” Angelina whispered, laughing.

George laughed back. “Maybe not deliberately, but us Weasley men, we’re exceptionally virile—especially the twins,” he added, throwing a wink to Hermione, who pretended not to see.

She still blushed through.

Where was Fred with her drink?

* * *

They bid goodbye to Rosmerta and ventured out onto High Street again. Mercifully, in the time since they’d been in the Three Broomsticks, the snowstorm had calmed down a bit, and they arrived back in Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes with far less snow in their faces.

Entering the shop—which did not yet have a Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes sign out front yet, that was to be the final touch—Fred ushered Hermione under the velvet curtain into the back room, inside which was a helical staircase leading up to the first floor.

“Wow!” she exclaimed as she got to the top. “This is _much_ bigger than the London flat!”

Indeed, it was. The main room was easily twice the size of the cramped living room in the Diagon Alley shop. The Diagon Alley shop also had the kitchen incorporated into the main room, but here it was entirely sectioned off with a wall and a door, which felt much more grown-up, in a strange sort of way. Most of the wall opposite the staircase entrance was a massive window overlooking Hogsmeade High Street, and on the left wall was a handsome fireplace, around which three bright red sofas and a yellow-and-orange chequered rug were clustered. Currently there was no coffee table.

“Two bedrooms,” Fred said, pointing to two doors on the right wall as he toed off his shoes. He didn’t normally care about wearing shoes inside, but that was because in the Burrow there was always something on the floor and that something was usually sharp. “Bathroom in between—it’s got a skylight—fireplace is connected to the Floo network, and that door there I _think_ is a study? Or a really small third bedroom. I think I’ll do the accounts there.”

Hermione turned to smirk at him, then noticed he’d removed his shoes, so bent to unzip her boots. “You sound absolutely _thrilled_ about it,” she said, and he stuck his tongue out at her. “Which bedroom is yours?”

“That one,” he said, pointing to the door furthest from the staircase. “It has a nice view of the street.”

She raised an eyebrow at him questioningly and he shrugged, then she rushed to the door and pushed it open. The room inside was painted lilac on three walls and indigo on the fourth; unusually vibrant, but hardly surprising for a Weasley twin. There was a large bed pushed up against the indigo wall opposite the door, a huge window on the left wall, and a folding closet door on the right. On the door’s immediate right was a chest of drawers with a small mirror propped on top of it, along with a haphazard mess of hygiene products and Wheezes products.

“Are these real?” she asked, picking up a tube of face cream. “Or one of your newer tricks?”

“Oh, that one’s real,” Fred said, plucking the tube from her grasp. “What, you think I have skin this amazing just _naturally?_ I’m touched.” He made an overly-serious pout, like a model posing for a glamour shot, and Hermione laughed.

“It’s cosy,” she admitted. “Though I’d honestly expected more mess.”

“Ah, just you wait,” he said. “I’ve only just moved in. That little study will be overflowing with neglected paperwork in no time. Just picture it.” He put an arm around her shoulders, waving the other hand out in front of them slowly and dramatically. “A sea of Wheezes products covering the entire living room floor. You dare not step for fear of setting off a fake wand, or a Wildfire Whiz-Bang!”

“Terrifying,” Hermione drawled, and he gave her a vaguely offended look. She rolled her eyes and shrugged his arm off, stepping deeper into his bedroom to examine the view from his window.

He was right, it _was_ nice. There was a cushioned seat built into the sill underneath it, and she sat on the edge of it, watching snowflakes lazily drift downwards. Fred sat on the left side of his bed, watching her watch the snow.

“Hey, uh, Hermione?” he said, and she looked up at him. He had leant forwards, head propped up by his fist, elbow resting on his knee.

“Yeah?”

His smile was soft. “If you want to kiss me again, I’d like that.”

For a moment, she was baffled, then a small laugh bubbled up inside of her. “Wow,” she remarked. “That’s the most passive way of asking for a kiss I’ve ever heard.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Oh, right,” he said, putting his arms out behind him to lean back. “I forgot you like the more aggressive route.”

She shrugged. “A little bit of fire is fun, now and then,” she admitted, and that was all she was going to admit to, right now. Not about the various thoughts she’d had over the past two weeks, sparked into idea by their kisses in Grimmauld Place’s kitchen. What it would feel like to have his fingers run up her sides, underneath her shirt, to trace the scars on his torso with her lips, to feel the bare skin of his stomach pressed against hers, his fingers curling insider the waistband of her jeans—

She suddenly felt quite warm.

Fred was looking at her, his eyes dark. Similar thoughts had come to him for a lot longer than two weeks, but he hadn’t really let himself indulge such ideas until Grimmauld Place, for fear of giving off the impression that he was some kind of creeper. Hermione was, above all else, his _friend_. Someone he liked, a _lot_ , and someone he definitely didn’t want to lose.

All that said… “You want fire?” he asked, giving a slow, sly grin.

“Never mind me,” she said with a smirk, “What do _you_ want?”

He smirked back, almost defiant. “I want you to kiss me.”

If Hermione were being totally honest, she was relieved to hear him say that. She’d thought a lot about the kisses in the kitchen, but most of all what they had _meant_ , and it hadn’t helped that they’d both been so busy that they hadn’t had a chance to talk about it. She knew she’d liked it, and she would like to do it again, but beyond that… well, she wasn’t really sure. She didn’t know what Fred wanted, what Fred had thought of it, and she didn’t want to make things awkward.

But, if there was one thing she was confident she could say about Fred Weasley, other than that he was very funny, it was that he had no patience for awkwardness. If things did go a bit wonky, she could well imagine him shrugging and going, _Oh well, it was fun for a while, eh, ‘Mione? Now check out this new product me and Gred have been working on…_ and that would be that and they could go back to being friends, no problem.

But. Now he’d said he’d like her to kiss him again.

Fred was honestly pleased with himself for being so direct. He’d been direct with girls before—like with Angelina at the Yule Ball, but they’d gone more as friends than anything else (even if they _had_ snogged. Just once, though)—but it was different when it was a girl he’d known this long, and a girl he liked this much. He really, _really_ didn’t want to muck this up.

Luckily, he supposed, they had time to, well, take their time.

 _Oh_ , that was a strange thought. Pleasant realisation dawned on him. He’d never really considered it, but… that was true. They had all the time in the world to figure this out. There was no danger, no threat that at any moment it could all be snatched away. They could just… go with the flow. Figure things out.

Hermione seemed to have reached the same conclusion, because she’d gotten up from the window seat and sat beside him on the bed. “I think I want to kiss you, too,” she said, and that was all she needed to say right now, because they had any number of tomorrows to figure out the details.

Something about that was quite simply delightful. Something else about that was… kind of hot. The idea that they didn’t need to figure everything out right now. They could just do as they pleased, do what felt right in that moment.

Hermione leant up first, brushing her lips lightly over his, and he responded in kind. It was a slow, tender thing. No need for the frantic rush of a first kiss; this was familiar territory, now. Shifting his weight to one arm, Fred slowly cupped a hand under Hermione’s chin, guiding her lips closer to his, leaning down a little more to kiss her harder. One of her hands rested lightly on his chest, over his heart. Then her hand fisted, grabbing hold, and she leant back, head coming to rest on the pillows of his bed, dragging him with her.

A thrill shivered down his spine as he shifted, putting out his arms so he didn’t end up settling his entire weight on her, feeling her arms wrap around his shoulders and pull him down, closer. It felt like in Grimmauld Place, she wanted him closer, he wanted to _be_ closer.

“You’re beautiful,” he muttered, and she grinned against his mouth.

“Flatterer,” she told him.

He shook his head, noses brushing. “Not flattery if it’s true.”

She kissed him again, but she was smiling so much that it was sort of awkward, but then one of his hands went to her hip, partly to stop her from falling off the bed, as she was sort of lying diagonally across it with her feet still on the floor, partly because he just wanted to touch her, and something in her abdomen fluttered.

“Fred,” she muttered, as he trailed a line of kisses from her mouth to her jawline and then down her neck.

“Mm?” he hummed, nipping the base of her throat, and her breath hitched slightly, and she felt him grin against her skin.

“This is a really awkward position,” she confessed with a laugh.

“Agreed,” he muttered, hand moving from her hip to the back of her thigh and pulling sharply. He rolled onto his back, dragging Hermione with him so she was propped above him, straddling his legs. Having not expected it, she gave a squeak and almost headbutted his shoulder, but stuck out her hands at the last moment so her face was a few inches away from his.

Fred gave a smile that was half charming and half cheeky. “Hey.”

She shook her head at him, irritated but also amused. “You’re ridiculous,” she muttered.

“I think the word you’re looking for is _irresistible_ , love,” he said with a wink.

She huffed, but she was smiling. “You can be two things,” she told him, then he leant up to peck her on the lips and she followed him down to kiss him properly. One of his hands was still on the back of her thigh, the other on her waist, and as she kissed him, one slid up to the back of her neck, tangling in her hair, the other to her hip, pulling her closer. His feet were still on the floor, so he sat up, pushing her up as he went, so she was sat in his lap. This angle was much better, as she could put her arms around him, hug tight around his neck, fist a hand in his hair. He liked when she clung to him; like she wanted him, like she needed him, like she felt safe around him.

One of Hermione’s hands moved from his shoulder, down to the collar of his shirt, her forefinger touching the top button. He froze.

She pulled back from him, brows furrowing in concern. “I’m sorry,” she said at once. “I didn’t mean to—I didn’t realise—”

“It’s okay,” he said, hand coming away from her hips to cover her own and giving it a reassuring squeeze. “I just… since last May… I haven’t…” He grimaced a little. How to explain? How to tell her that he’d had George remove the mirror in their shared bathroom in London? How to tell her he liked to change clothes in the dark? How to tell her that for the first several months after the end of the war that he’d dreaded— _dreaded_ , to the point he’d had panic attacks—showering?

Hermione smiled gently. “I don’t care, Fred,” she said, shuffling forwards slightly, so she was pressed as close as she could get. “I mean, I _do_ , because _you_ do, but not like—I’m not _bothered_.” She leant in and pressed a quick, soft kiss to the scar under his left eye. “In case it escaped your notice, I _do_ find you attractive. _Very_ attractive,” she added, her smile becoming a smirk.

He flushed, a red stripe appearing across his cheeks, stretching right to the tips of his ears. Logically, he supposed he’d known that. This was Hermione, after all, and she was amazing. All the same, it was a relief to hear her say it aloud.

“It wasn’t just that,” he admitted, “But, thank you. I find you very attractive, too.” He squeezed her hip cheekily, which honestly relieved her a little, because it was a sign he wasn’t upset. “I just—I didn’t want to come across as presumptuous, or—or push you. I wasn’t expecting you to want to… especially with, well…” He gestured vaguely to his chest; his scars.

She gave a small laugh. “Fred, if I didn’t want to, I wouldn’t be sitting in your lap right now.” Inwardly, though, she was deeply pleased that he was being so considerate. Not that that was anything but the barest show of decency, but she was still pleased he was thinking about her boundaries. “And…” she went on, biting her lip. “At the… at the risk of sounding a little, er, presumptuous… Maybe we could… go… a little further?”

She screwed her eyes shut as she spoke, grimacing with embarrassment. She was turning red; she _knew_ she was turning red. Redder than Fred’s hair, redder than those godawful sofas in his living room. But Fred just gaped at her like she’d just announced that Christmas had come early, or Filch had been greatly inconvenienced by one of their pranks.

Over the past several years, Fred had, on multiple occasions, found himself staring at Hermione, and had been unable to decide when he liked her best.

When she was studying, there was a deep concentration on her features; the way her brows furrowed as she powered through huge tomes as wide as his hand, the way the tip of her tongue stuck out of her mouth as she scrambled to write everything down before the thoughts escaped her head and were lost, he found himself wanting to know what she was thinking about for how intense she focussed, found himself fascinated by proxy, knew he would happily listen for hours because passion made everything interesting.

When she laughed, well, he loved her laugh, and he loved her smile, loved that she was so much more willing to beam ever since her front teeth had been shrunken slightly, loved the way her nose crinkled, loved the freedom of expression that was laughter itself, loved seeing her so raw and unbothered by what people thought.

When she was angry, he could feel it crackle in the air, lightning sparks flying from her eyes, her fingertips, the way she stood her ground and was as willing to physically fight as she was to verbally berate as she was to send off a curse, nothing off limits because her wrath was a force to be reckoned with and more importantly a force to be feared, because no one took her for granted, no one got away with taking others for granted whilst she was there, and no one could ever have the excuse of not having known that she did not approve, for she would passionately explain exactly why.

 _Passionate_ , he thought. That was a recurring theme. Maybe he could expand on that, now. He looked at Hermione, who was still half-grimacing, mortified, though she’d opened her eyes now. Soft and brown and with just a hint of uncertainty. That wouldn’t do at all.

_Maybe we could… go… a little further?_

“Yeah,” he murmured, a small smile crawling up his face. He caught the tip of his tongue between his teeth, a natural tick when he thought about something that was a specific kind of enticing, and something he also knew tended to drive witches a little wild—and he liked wild. Wild was passion. “Yeah, I think I could live with that.”

Hermione scowled a little. “You’re incorrigible.”

“That’s: _adorable_ , love,” he corrected with a laugh, then kissed her. Not her lips, but the base of her throat. Hermione, who’d opened her mouth to retort, was caught off guard, and a soft moan escaped her instead. That was a nice sound, he thought, grinning slyly against her skin. A very nice sound, and one he could hopefully pull from her a few more times at _least_.

“So,” he purred, scratching a tooth along a tendon in her neck, feeling her shiver in his arms. “How far is a little further?”

She was breathing a lot harder than she should be, she thought, for someone who hadn’t been running. She might’ve been embarrassed if she’d had the presence of mind, if she’d been with anyone else. “Uh…” she mumbled, not quite able to think straight as he wrapped her hair around his hand and gently pulled, tipping her head back and giving him better access to her throat. “I don’t—I’m not quite sure. How, um, how about we—we see where… where it goes?”

“Works for me,” he grinned, and she took his face in her hands and bent to kiss him. “I’m easy.”

He stood up, keeping a tight grip on her hips, and she wrapped her legs around his waist. For a moment, he thought about pressing her up against the wall, about how she would have to keep her legs around him, about how tight she would have to cling to him. But the bed was closer, and the idea of seeing her hair splayed out across the bed—across _his_ bed—was even better.

Turning, he lay her down on the bed, hands sliding up from her hips, sneaking under the hem of her t-shirt, running his fingers along the bare skin of her stomach. Her breath quivered and she tightened her arms around his neck. She craved the weight of him atop her, the warmth of his body against her skin. She arched her back slightly, encouraging him wordlessly, and his hands slid up higher, fingers splaying over her ribcage, feeling the wire of her bra.

Sitting up, Hermione pushed him upright so he was kneeling, and crossed her arms over her stomach, slowly lifting her shirt over her head and tossing it aside. He gazed at her, at the blush in her cheeks, at the miles of smooth, pale skin, at her violet bra. He smiled, the tip of his tongue caught between his teeth again, as he ran a finger delicately along the lace. “We match,” he remarked softly, and raised an eyebrow. “Coincidence?”

“I thought you didn’t believe in coincidence,” she replied. She didn’t think it was a conscious choice; she hadn’t left Hogwarts this afternoon with the intention of showing Fred—or anyone—her underwear. But she knew violet was his favourite colour.

Laying down on the bed shirtless, one hand above her head, biting the knuckle of her forefinger, hair wild and splayed over the mattress, she looked up at him through lidded eyes, a blush streaking across her cheeks. He couldn’t help but stare. “God, you’re hot,” he muttered.

That earned him a sly smile. And that smile, on Hermione Granger’s face, as she lay on his bed, topless, was just about the best thing he’d ever seen.

“You’re not too bad yourself,” she whispered back.

He grinned, surging forwards to kiss her, hard, both his hands cupping her face. Then they slid down, over her shoulders, down her arms, finding her waist again. As she lay back down, he ducked to kiss her throat, her collar, her stomach. Hot, open-mouthed things, lustful and harsh, sure to leave marks on her skin. He could feel the muscles of her stomach flutter under his touch, tensing with anticipation, and one of her hands stroked through his hair, the other fisted above her head as her chest heaved with shallow, panting breaths.

He took his time to come back to her mouth, slowly crawling his way back up, trailing his tongue and his kisses as he went, fingers following in their wake, dancing over her stomach, her flanks, finally stopping just below her bra as he kissed her mouth again. She could see the question in his eyes, just as he saw the answer in hers, and he gave the violet lace a gentle squeeze.

She whimpered, the hand in his hair tightening as he kissed her, the other hand cupping his, holding him there. He smiled against her mouth, then lowered his head, pressing a kiss to the top of her breast, kneading the soft flesh. Her legs were still wrapped tightly around his hips, as if she feared what would happen if she let go, but that was fine with him—he was pretty sure there was no better place to be.

“Hey,” she then said quietly, and when he looked at her, one of her hands went to the top button of his shirt.

He stilled, and she noticed. Her voice was so very gentle as she asked, “Do you trust me?”

“Of course,” he exclaimed softly. “I just… I don’t want you to… to…” _To what?_ What exactly was he afraid of? He wasn’t quite sure, only that he _was_ afraid.

Hermione smiled at him. If a grin, a beam, was like sunlight, then this smile was like moonlight. Something calm and gentle and… _pure_. Just so simply _good_. “I meant what I said,” she told him. “But if you don’t want me to… to see them, I won’t force you.”

Fred let out a sigh, lowering himself slightly so he could touch his forehead to hers. “It’s not that,” he said. “Just… even now, I… I don’t like to look at them.”

“Then you don’t have to,” she said simply. “I won’t make you, Fred. I want you to be comfortable, just like you want me to be.”

He gave a soft shake of his head, a softer laugh. “Merlin, Hermione,” he murmured. “How are you so… I dunno. Amazing. Wonderful.” She blushed, and opened her mouth, but he cut her off. “Don’t say you aren’t,” he said. “Because you are, you really are.”

“So’re you,” she replied. “And a few scars aren’t going to change that. Remember Bill and Fleur? She doesn’t care what he looks like. She said those scars show that he’s brave, and you…” She pressed one hand over his heart. “You’re one of the bravest men I know.”

Fred had gone very red, right to the tips of his ears, and he flashed her his signature boyish grin. “Well,” he said, “We Gryffindor men _are_ famed for our courage.”

She gave a little laugh as he shifted his weight to one arm, his now-free hand gently clasping the one she’d placed over his heart and bringing it to his lips. He kissed her fingertips, then guided her gently down to the topmost button of his shirt. Her eyes widened a little. “You’re sure?”

He nodded. “I’m sure.”

Slowly, fingers trembling slightly, Hermione undid the top button, the one at his collar. He watched her eyes as she undid another, then another, slowly revealing his chest, inch by inch. White scars crisscrossed his skin, some neat and smooth, others ragged and raised. When the last button fell open, she carefully pressed her hands to his chest, almost in awe of him. He was still watching her closely, watching her reaction, both of them so caught up in this spell-like intensity that when her gaze flicked up to meet his, he almost started.

“You’re beautiful,” she told him, and reached up to kiss him. She wound her arms around his neck and pulled him down, revelling in the sensation of his bare skin against hers. He kissed her back, desperate and raw, robbed of any suave pretence, just so relieved by her.

Hermione twisted her hips sharply, rolling them over so she was on top. The action caught him by surprise and he made a sort of impressed noise, which made her grin.

“My god, what a view…” he exclaimed quietly. “I never thought I’d have Hermione Granger sitting on top of me without a shirt on.” She had one hand raised to brush her hair back from her face, the moonlight from the window sharply illuminating her left side, casting dramatic shadows across the place of her face and stomach. Her lips were swollen with kisses, her face flushed, eyes shining with a dark sort of hunger. She wrapped one hand around the back of his neck, biting gently, then kissing hard, sure to leave a mark. One of his hands held her hip, the other tangled in her hair as she kissed on his throat, his collar, sliding her free hand over his chest, lips following. Just as he had done to her, she pressed kisses to his marred skin, tracing the line of each scar, feeling his abdominal muscles twitch under her touch. In a moment of particular daring, one of her hands slid still lower, past his belt buckle, over the rough material of his jeans.

Fred let out a sort of strangled moan, and she stopped kissing his stomach a moment to raise her head and grin at him lecherously. “Enjoying ourselves, are we?” she asked in an impossibly innocent tone, even as her smile was wicked, even as she continued rubbing over his jeans.

“Of course you’re a giant tease,” he lamented, but he was grinning at her as he said it. One of his hands was resting behind his head, the other still in her hair, and she had to admit to herself that this—his shirt open, with the sleeves still rolled to his elbows, his eyes bright with arousal—was a pretty damn amazing view, too.

She cocked her head to the side. “What, you want me to stop?”

“Oh, Merlin, no,” he exclaimed, just a little too quickly and a little too desperately to be able to play it off as casual and teasing. “Not unless you want to, that is.”

She laughed a little. “I’m alright for now, I think,” she said, crawling back up his body to kiss his lips again. She loved the feeling of his skin against hers, as he wrapped his arms around her and held her close. His hands played at the clasp on the small of her back, and he pulled away from her just enough that she could see his questioning expression. She nodded, and he popped the clasp. Leaning back to kneel upright, she slid her arms out of the straps and threw her bra in the same direction as her shirt, and he wasn’t ashamed to say he gaped at her.

Leaning up, he kissed her lips, then her jaw, then her collar, then sealed his lips over her nipple. She gave a breathy little moan, one hand scratching across his scalp, the other braced on his shoulder. He ran a finger down her spine and she arched into him, wrapping her arms tight around his shoulders. He flicked his tongue and she cried out, then moved to her other breast and did the same until she was grinding down on his hips hard enough to make his thoughts tangle and wander, consumed with only the idea of what she would taste like, and feel like, and the sounds she would make.

Hermione then tugged at the collar of his shirt with both hands, and when he nodded, slid her fingers under the shirt and pushed it off his shoulders. She traced the line of one particular scar on his right shoulder as he threw his shirt into the corner, ducking her head to kiss it. He took this opportunity to kiss the side of her neck, one hand wrapping around her back, cradling her as he carefully shifted, rolling them over so he was on top again. His hand ghosted over her torso, between the valley of her breasts, tracing wandering lines over her stomach and around her navel until he came to the waistband of her jeans.

“Yeah?” he asked, more a breath than a question. She nodded.

“Yeah,” she breathed back, and with a deft flick of his fingers—that boded well, she thought, then almost laughed—he popped the button. Tugging down the zipper, his hand slid into her jeans, over the matching violet panties, feeling a warm, damp patch between her thighs.

He grinned at her, positively wicked. “My, my,” he murmured, propped up next to her on his elbow, arm under the pillow. “Is that because of little old _me?_ ”

She muffled a sort of whimper as she glared up at him. “Honestly,” she muttered. “You’re— _ohh_ …” She cut herself off with a moan as he brushed against her lightly, biting her lip.

 _Merlin_ , he thought, mouth suddenly going dry. He could just listen to that sound forever. And combined with how she closed her eyes, bit her lip, eyebrows raised in an expression that could only be described as desperate… If he wasn’t careful, he was going to end up like a spotty little third year and make a mess of his jeans.

“You were saying?” he asked, mimicking her innocent tone from a minute ago. Not trusting herself to speak, she just glared at him, even as one hand stroked over his shoulder, then down his arm, silently asking he do that again. He did, and the way she arched her back and bit her lip would haunt him, he knew, in all the best ways.

“Hey,” he said softly. “Do you mind if I—?” He removed his hand to pull at the waistband of her jeans. She nodded, then lifted her hips, and he slowly pulled them down, over her hips and off her legs. She had, he thought, very nice legs. He very much liked the idea of her wrapping them around him.

“You cheeky little witch,” he murmured, smiling wryly, slowly sliding a hand up over her stomach, fingers splayed. “Hiding all this. Then again, it’s probably for the best,” he added with a grin. “I had enough sleepless nights and pretty dreams as it is.”

She looked at him, arousal giving way to curiosity. “You… thought about me?”

He chuckled. “All the bloody time,” he told her. “Well—not _all_ the time. Sometimes I was thinking about Wheezes.”

She laughed quietly, blushing again. The sight of him, shirtless and yet still confident, still joking around, was as heart-warming as it was incredibly attractive.

“You might’ve given _me_ a few sleepless nights of my own,” she admitted, and he stared at her, then grinned a grin that would’ve given the Cheshire Cat a run for his money.

“Hopefully I can give you a few more,” he purred, crawling up the bed to kiss her, his hand slowly—slowly enough that she could’ve stopped him if she’d wanted—sliding back down her stomach, under the lace of her panties.

She gave a soft squeak at the first touch, and he stilled, concerned, until she muttered. “No, you’re fine, I just—I didn’t—” She wasn’t sure how to finish, but she didn’t need to, because he grinned against her mouth and moved again.

Despite what many people may have believed, given her relative lack of experience, Hermione _did_ know what she liked, and was prepared to prompt Fred if he asked, but he didn’t. His movements were slow, exploratory, piecing together what worked, what didn’t, and what drove her just the right amount of mad. After a few minutes, she was breathing hard and flushed all over, one hand fisted in the bedsheets, the other cupping his cheek as he stared down at her, entranced by her expression, by all the wonderful ways her breath hitched as he touched her.

“F-Fred…” she muttered. “I—I—”

“What?” he asked, smiling just enough that she could tell he was teasing her—just a bit.

She screwed her eyes shut for a moment, then they flew open. She bit her lip, then exhaled hard, her grip tightening on the sheet. The hand on his cheek moved to the back of his neck as she pulled him down for a kiss. He obliged, and against his lips she managed to pant, “I—I need…”

God, _what?_ What did she need? She wasn’t even sure; every cell in her body screamed _more_ ; that nebulous, imprecise _more_. She didn’t know what it was, but she wanted it—needed it, even. But what? What was… _it?_

Fred gave a soft chuckle, delighted by her desperation, and suddenly it clicked. Him, she realised—more of _him_.

He’d seemed to come to that conclusion only a moment before she did, because his fingers suddenly slowed and he began to kiss his way down her torso, settling himself between her legs. When he reached her navel, he looked up at her, how she looked fascinated and just a little bit nervous. “Is this okay?”

She nodded. “Yeah, I… I think so.” The idea of wanting something—some _one_ —so much kind of scared her, but it was Fred, and she trusted him, and she felt safe around him, and she really, _really_ wanted ‘more’ of him. “Yes.”

He gave another sly smile, pressing a slow kiss to the spot just above the hem of her panties. One side, then the other. He gently nudged her legs apart and kissed the inside of her thighs; soft, milk-pale skin that would take so nicely to a little bruise, so he left one there; a tiny mark of pride. He could feel her eyes watching him, loved how intently she stared, rapt, loved the quiver of her lip as she exhaled, as he kissed her thigh, as he held her gaze. Then he hooked his finger under the material and pulled it aside.

For a moment, she was embarrassed, acutely aware of just how _exposed_ she was, but then he reached up to take her hand—the one gripping the bedsheet—and guided it to his head, so she was gripping him by the hair again.

“If you want to stop,” he said, and _oh, lord_ , she could feel his breath there, and it sent shivers up her spine and down her legs and right to the tips of her fingers. “Just tell me.”

And then he kissed her.

At once, Hermione’s other hand clapped to her mouth, because the sound she made, the sound she half-made, the sound she didn’t quite choke back, was louder and rawer by far than any of the others. He looked up at her, then reached up to take her hand, threading their fingers together.

“Don’t be shy, love,” he said, and she half wanted to swat him for the cheeky expression on his face. “Be as loud as you want.” He wrapped his free arm around her leg, so his hand was pressed flat against her abdomen, then ducked down to kiss her again.

This time, she didn’t try to choke back the sounds, some part of her darkly pleased that he could pull them from her, some part wanting to show off just how much he made her feel. Like with his hands, he tested and explored, learning quickly just what she needed, and just how to tease her until she was shamelessly panting. Half of those ragged breaths sounded like pleas; _don’t stop, please god don’t stop, oh right there—right there_ and the other sounded an awful lot like his name. She was caught between wanting to squeeze her legs shut and open them wider, muscles tensing, increasing her grip on his hair and his hand as something inside her wound tighter, and tighter, and tighter—

“ _Ohh!_ ” She shuddered, letting out a long, low moan, then went limp. Her mind was fuzzy around the edges, every part of her tingled, and she lazily carded her finger through his hair as he shuffled back up the bed. He wiped the back of his hand roughly, then she kissed him, rough and hungry, tasting herself on him.

“Do you have any idea how gorgeous you are when you do that?” he asked her, when she finally let him pull away from her, both of them breathing hard.

“Not really,” she replied, stroking the line of his collar bone. “Maybe you should do that again, and I can pay better attention.”

He grinned, eyes sparkling with excitement. “Ooh,” he said, “That sounds like a _great_ idea.”

She put both her hands on his chest. “Not right now,” she specified, then pushed. Obediently, he rolled onto his back, and she straddled him again, hands going to his belt. She could feel him watching her, but despite having almost no clothes on, she didn’t feel shy. It was a strange sort of powerful, feeling his gaze on her, knowing he wanted her, feeling so desired.

And when she pulled down his jeans and threw them aside, she was faced with a very blatant example of just how much he wanted her. She tucked her hand under the material of his boxers, wrapping her fingers around him, slowly moving up and down. It was a strange thing, to watch his reaction, to see how much difference the tiniest movement made; strangely fascinating. She felt that hunger again, the same part of her that had cried ‘more’, and she was willing to bet that he had that same voice crying out right now, from how he began to pant, how he reached out to her, and pulled her lips to hers when she leant over him, his hand wrapping around her wrist, guiding her to speed up.

“God, Hermione…” he muttered, eyes squeezed shut. “I, I— _fuck_.”

 _Oh._ She hadn’t heard him curse before. Well, she _had_. But not like this. Not like he meant it as a prayer. She was suddenly eager to hear it again, and sped up, wondering what he might taste like, ducking her head and kissing along his abdomen on her way to find out—

“Stop,” he suddenly gasped, covering her hand with his own. She froze at once, suddenly terrified she’d done something wrong, or hurt him.

“Oh god, are you okay, did I—?”

He chuckled. “No, no, you’re alright,” he assured her, breathing shakily. “You just… I…” He huffed a laugh, somewhat embarrassed. “You’re driving me a little _too_ crazy, there.”

She grinned. “Oh, _am_ I, now?” she asked.

“Yeah, yeah,” he muttered, kissing her. He rolled over, pinning her beneath him, and what a strange thing kissing was, that it could be done in so many different ways, because this somehow felt exactly the same and yet nothing like those kisses they’d shared in Grimmauld Place’s kitchen, and if someone had told Hermione then that, in two weeks, she would be naked in Fred’s bed, she wouldn’t believe them.

“Hermione,” he said. “Do you, er… are you… _on_ … anything?

She nodded, then raised her left arm. There was a tiny scar there, showing where her implant had been inserted. He stared at it owlishly, and she knew he was going to ask a million questions later. He was so very like his father sometimes, and curious was one of Fred Weasley’s very best looks, in her opinion. As for now, though, they both had more interesting things to occupy themselves with.

“Are you, ahem… clean?” she asked, blushing.

He nodded. “You’re so cute when you’re embarrassed,” he remarked, stroking a hand over her cheek. “Especially when you’re embarrassed and naked,” he added, and kissed where his hand had been. She swatted him, but laughed too, and he kissed her again, cradling her head in his hands.

“Wait,” she then murmured, serious, and he pulled back. “Promise me something.”

He blinked at her, eyes bright with sudden concern. “Are you okay?”

The grip of her hand on his shoulder tightened. “Promise me something, Fred,” she repeated, more insistently.

“Hermione,” he said, cupping her cheek with his hand, stroking his thumb over her temple. His voice was low and earnest. “Anything.”

“Whatever happens,” she said, still gripping his shoulder. “Whatever we do or—or don’t do… promise me it won’t—we won’t… That nothing will change. I don’t want to lose you.” Because she’d learned what it felt like to lose him, and she knew she couldn’t bear to go through it again.

He smiled at her, soft as a promise, as the first kiss he’d given her. She was faintly surprise that someone who spent most of the time grinning like a trickster was capable of being so sweet, but that was one of the things she liked about him so much. “Of course not,” he said, stroking a lock of hair back from her face. “‘Mione, you’re never going to lose me. _I promise_.”

She hadn’t realised she’d been holding her breath until, at those words, she let it out, a small huff of relief. Her grip on his arm relaxed a little, and when he leant down to kiss her lips, they were smiling.

“Face it, love,” he murmured, “You’re stuck with me.” Whether as a friend or something more, they had been through too much to sever this bond that had grown between them. It would have been easier for either of them to cut off their own arm that to cut ties with each other, or Harry, or Ron, or any of them.

“I think I can live with that,” she replied, wrapping her arms tight around his neck and pulling him down, grinning as she kissed him.

Between her legs was wet and inviting, even more so when he brushed a gentle hand over her and even that slightest touch made her whine. Kissing her again, quick but fierce, he cupped her face in one hand, propping himself up on his elbow. His lips were a breath from hers, a whisper, a secret.

“‘Mione…” he murmured, cupping her face in one hand. Was his voice shaking as much as he thought it was? “Are you…?”

“Yes,” she whispered back. Her hands tightened on the back of his neck and his shoulder. She hadn’t realised until tonight just how muscular he was, under the sleek suits or the worn jumpers he wore; just how strong. Strong enough, she was willing to bet, to hold her up against the wall, or balance her on the edge of his chest of drawers.

“Yes,” she said again, and she felt him shift his weight as his hand moved between them. He lined himself up, and she felt him nudge her there, and it was such a strange feeling, somehow so similar and yet so different to his hands. He kissed her lightly on the lips, more like he was trying to get her attention than anything else, then slowly moved his hips forwards.

She squeaked, more out of surprise than anything else, and he immediately stilled. “No, no,” she said quickly. “I’m okay, just—slowly.”

He nodded, ducking his head into the pillows beside hers, and the slow, shuddering exhale of his breath filled her ear as he… _well_. She felt his hips press into hers, and for a moment just lay there, adjusting to the feel of it— _him_. Adjusting to the sensation. It was somehow—in a weird way—kind of… comforting. Or maybe that was just because it was Fred. She had a death-grip on his hair, and relaxed it, carding her fingers through it, breathing slow and shakily.

After several moments, she—almost experimentally—shifted her hips upwards. She was immediately shocked that such a small motion could have such an enormous impact; the way Fred moaned, the way his hand tightened on the sheet beside her, clenching around the fabric, the sparks of pleasure that rippled out from somewhere in her abdomen to dance across her vision. She did it again, and again, and he began to move with her. Slow, exploratory, leisurely. Fred had the advantage of being on top and having previous experience, and he’d paid attention earlier; he knew her tells. He knew the sounds she made when he was doing it right.

As he moved, the word that came to Hermione’s mind was _sublime_. It was _sublime_ to feel him there, to have him touching her, holding her, to feel this close to someone, to hold his face in her hands and gaze into his eyes. They were wide and hungry and dark and no doubt mirrors of her own, and it was a delicious thing, a wicked thing, to see it.

She kissed him, ravenous for him, for all of him, biting his bottom lip, tracing the line of his jaw with her mouth, clutching at his shoulders, wrapping her arms around his hips, urging him on. couldn’t think straight, she couldn’t think at all; the only thing she could focus on was the feeling of his hips pressed against hers, his hot breath on her neck, his fingers digging into her hips and tangling in her hair.

“‘Mione,” he slurred. Proper speech was a magic even he wasn’t capable of right now. “I—I— _god_.” He heaved a breath, like a drowning man breaking the surface of water. Like this; like _she_ was the air he needed.

Even though he hadn’t said anything, she understood what he meant, and reciprocated it entirely. The formless, wordless _this_. She was faintly sure that if he stopped right now, she would actually die. She could feel that coil winding tighter again, but more intense; maybe because Fred was getting close, too. She could feel it in the small spasms of his shoulder under her fingers.

“Fred…” she whined, clutching at his shoulder so tightly she would later find scratch marks there. “ _God_ , I—you—” She didn’t know.

“You—you drive me crazy,” he muttered, and she probably wouldn’t have heard him if his lips hadn’t been right next to her ear for how heavily they were both breathing. “Did you know that? Absolutely insane.” He kissed her mouth. “These lips—” He tugged on her hair and nipped her earlobe. “—this hair—” With surprising clarity of mind, he grabbed her and pulled her upwards, manoeuvring so she was sitting in his lap, pressed against his torso, looking down into his eyes. He grinned at her. “—that _mind_.”

“Fred…” she moaned again, much less quietly this time. She scrabbled for purchase against him as he moved, wrapping her arms around him so tightly he thought he might break. But oh, what a divine thing that would be; that he might shatter into pieces, that she might be able to touch him everywhere, to _know_ him everywhere.

She wanted to tell him the same. That she’d thought so often of his smile, of his eyes, of how he’d looked after a Quidditch match, flushed and messy and euphoric, of how he’d looked at her in Grimmauld Place just before he’d kissed her. But she could barely form the actual thoughts, pull them from a rushing, wordless tide of affection and lust, let alone voice them. It was all she could do to simply hold onto him, lost in the rhythm that was him and her and their mingled breath as they got closer, and closer, and closer…

“Fred, I—” she panted. “I need—I can’t—I _can’t_ —”

“Let go,” he whispered, breathing so hard she could barely make out his words. He wound one arm around her shoulders and pulled her hair aside, kissing the spot just under her ear. “Go on, ‘Mione, just let go…” Was she hallucinating or did he almost sound like he was _goading_ her? She couldn’t find it within herself to care; not with the purr of his voice, not with his arm around her back, not with his other hand snaking down between them and just _pressing_ —

She cried out again; so beyond the point of embarrassment, something that sounded vaguely like Fred’s name. Somewhere in the rush she heard him moan, felt him clutch her, felt him groan her name into her ear like it was a curse—or a prayer, and by the time she came back down to earth, light-headed and tingling, she was lying on top of him, and they were upside down on the bed, and he was grinning up at her, eyes glittering.

“My god,” he panted, “You’re gorgeous.” He put a hand behind her head and pulled her down for a messy, lazy kiss. She made a low noise of content, the palms of her hands curling over his chest, feeling the exhilarated beating of his heart.

“You’re not too bad yourself,” she murmured. When they parted, she said, “That was… intense.”

He raised an eyebrow, playfully cocky. “ _Good_ intense?”

“Oh, very good,” she assured him, smiling like the cat who got the cream. He grinned at her again, scooping her up in surprisingly steady arms, standing up on surprisingly steady legs, and deposited her the right way up on the bed, underneath the thick blanket. It was still January, after all, and they were still in Scotland, and they were both without a stitch of clothing.

It was warm in his bed, and warmer still when he climbed in beside her, once again pulling away curls from her shoulder to kiss her neck. He lay on his back, arm curled around her, and she rested her hand on his chest, tracing the lines of his scars. Had she been looking at his face, she would have seen utter content in his eyes; not a hint of shame.

Howling wind made her look to the window, and she realised that, in the time since they’d gotten back from the Three Broomsticks, the snowstorm had picked up again. She grimaced. “Do you mind if I stay the night?”

Fred looked down at her. “Yes,” he said sarcastically, “I’m going to kick you out to walk back to Hogwarts in a January snowstorm right after having sex with you.” He then laughed and shifted so he was lying on his side, arms around her waist, kissing at her flushed cheeks.

“I just didn’t want to… overstay my welcome,” she mumbled. He beamed at her.

“Hermione, I think we can safely say that’s not gonna happen,” he said. “Certainly not anytime soon.”

She shrugged. “Fair point. I just…” She trailed off and blushed.

He peered at her. “Just what?” he asked softly, then nudged her with his nose. “Aw, c’mon, don’t tell me you’re shy _now_.”

That just made her blush harder. “I just… I’ve never shared a bed with a boy before,” she admitted. “And I know—” she added quickly. “I know we just did… all of _that_ … but it’s still… a first. For me.”

Fred smiled at her, and one again she was stunned by how sweet he could look when he normally looked exactly the opposite. “‘Mione,” he said, “I am _honoured_ —truly—that you’re happy to have me as your first, as any of your firsts.”

He raised a hand to cup her cheek, and he looked at her with such fondness that for a moment she felt like she might burst into tears. Instead, she kissed him. It was deeply satisfying, to wind her arms around his neck and pull him right against her, all warm skin and soft bedsheets. He rolled so he was lying half on top of her, hand stroking down her side. “I meant it,” he told her. “You’re gorgeous. And hot,” he added with a wink.

“Oh, god…” she muttered, putting her hands to her face. “That was—the most _ridiculous_ noise I’ve ever made.”

He laughed, prying her hands away. “Not the word I was thinking of,” he said, kissing her fingertips. “Sexy, maybe. Stunning? Exquisite?”

She giggled. “Stop it,” she muttered, shaking her head. She hated that she was blushing so much, but also loved that he was making her blush.

“No chance,” he cackled. “How about… _passionate?_ ”

“Are you just going to keep listing adjectives all night?”

He shrugged. “Unless you give me something better to do,” he replied, winking again. “Now, didst mine ears deceive me, or did that ‘ridiculous’ noise sound a lot like… oh, what was it? Bed? Red?”

She shoved him lightly in the chest, and he rolled off so he was lying on his back. Tucking one arm behind his head, he laughed, head turned to face her. “Seriously, though, you’re alright?”

Lying on her side, she nodded. “Better than alright,” she said. “You?”

His raised his eyebrows “I’m almost offended you have to ask.”

That was pretty fair, she supposed. It practically glowed out of him; his grin was radiant. He looked more at peace and more content than she’d seen in… she didn’t know how long. Certainly before the Battle of Hogwarts, before the wall. She reached out again, her right hand lying on top of his chest, feeling the beating of his heart as it slowed down from the high, the warm skin, the slightly raised scars. So very alive.

“So…” he murmured, shifting so he was also lying on his side, pinning her hand to his chest with his own. He wanted her to feel his heartbeat, like he was promising her something, and he wasn’t even sure what; just that it wasn’t something promised with words. She, too, was radiant, but if he was the blazing sun, she was the serene moon. From the window, moonlight edged her in silver, highlighting every one of her flyaway curls. “After you graduate with seven ‘Outstanding’s in your NEWTs…”

“Flatterer,” she remarked, but she was blushing. She gazed at him, her left hand under her cheek, her right over his heart. Since he was the one facing the window, he was illuminated by the moon, and his skin glowed; freckles like spots of ink on parchment.

“It’s not flattery if it’s true,” he reminded her, raising hr hand and pressing a kiss to her knuckles. “After you get your seven O’s—and maybe I can give you a few more—” He added with a wink, and she laughed, snatching back her hand to cover her face.

“That’s terrible,” she muttered around a laugh, closing her eyes. “I’m not even looking at you. That was so awful.”

He grinned at her. “Thank you,” he said. “So what’re you going to do after you graduate?”

She opened her eyes and shrugged. “I’m not fully sure,” she admitted. “Well, I’d _like_ to…” She trailed off.

“What?” he asked, and when she didn’t answer he shifted forwards slightly so their noses were almost touching. “Hermione,” he said gently, “Come on, you can tell me anything.”

She looked at him. “You have to promise not to laugh,” she said. His eyes widened, first with curiosity at what could possibly make her feel the need to say that, then mild offence.

“ _Hermione_ ,” he said outrageously. “What makes you think I would _ever_ laugh at—okay, wait, no. I’m setting myself up for that one.” He held up a finger. “Let me rephrase: do you really think I would laugh at something that’s clearly important to you?” He fixed her with his sweetest, bluest eyes.

She shook her head. “Promise.”

“Of course. I promise.”

Biting her lip for a moment, considering whether to tell, she finally said, “I want to go to Muggle university.”

Fred blinked at her. The first thing that came to mind was, “Why?”

It wasn’t a laugh, Hermione supposed. “Because I spent the first eleven years of my life at Muggle school,” she said. “And I want to have Muggle qualifications.”

He considered this. “Makes sense. I bet you’ll get whatever their version of ‘Outstanding’ is,” he added with a grin, reaching out to hug her around the shoulders and pull her against him. She let out a surprised squeal, then started to laugh.

“You don’t—you don’t think it’s weird?” she asked him, now burrowed into his chest.

“What, that Hermione Granger, brightest witch of her age, wants to do more school?” he asked. “Forgive me if I saw it coming, love.” He pressed a kiss to the top of her head, then another to her forehead, then one to her cheek, until he’d covered her face with kisses and she was giggling again. “So, tell me,” he said, rolling onto his back and pulling her with him, so she was lying on top of him. “How do Muggle schools work?”

Hermione lay her arms across his chest, resting her chin on the backs of her hands, and beamed. She beamed because she could tell he was genuinely curious. He wasn’t asking out of obligation, or because he wanted something from her. He just wanted to know. He wanted to hear her talk. “I don’t know how it works in Scotland,” she admitted, “But in England, your last two years of school—you know, sixteen to eighteen—you do these things called A-Levels. They’re like NEWTs for Muggles. And then you apply to universities, they’re like… extra-hard schools, you spend three years doing just one subject—a degree.”

Fred nodded. “Makes sense,” he said again. “So what do Muggles study at… universe-cities?” He raised a hand to brush back another errant curl from her face.

“Universities,” she corrected. “And, well… just about anything. It’s very specialised. I’d like to do sociology, I think. And history.”

He looked at her. “I thought you just said you do one subject,” he said, but he was smiling in a way that suggested he already knew what she was going to say.

And, sure enough, “Well, _most_ people only do one subject,” she explained, “But you can do two if you want. It’s called a joint-degree.”

“And of course you’d do one of those,” he smiled, stroking a finger over the spot where her neck and shoulder joined. He’d kissed her there earlier, and it looked like it was going to leave a mark. He quite liked that, the idea that he’d marked her in some way—that she’d let him. No doubt he would be covered in marks of his own tomorrow. He liked _that_ even more.

“I must be a genius,” he then announced, grinning. “How’d I get the brightest witch of her age to fall for me?”

She smiled. “Your smarts had nothing to do with it,” she told him, shifting forwards to kiss him again.

“You calling me stupid?” he asked, mock offended. “Cause you’re half right. I’m a fool—for you.”

“ _Ugh!_ ” she laughed, pushing herself away from him. “That was _really_ terrible.”

He laughed. “Thank you,” he said again, and leant forwards to kiss her.

* * *

Luckily, Fred returned a moment later, another piña colada in his hand. No sooner had he given it to her than the doorbell rang, and Harry got to his feet.

“That must be Ron,” he said, and at once, everyone stopped talking. Fred sat himself down next to Hermione and they watched as Harry left the room.

“So…” Fred said quietly. From the hallway, they heard the front door opening and Harry’s muffled voice as he greeted Lavender and Ron. “…George is engaged, Perce got that fancy promotion, Ron’s gonna be a dad—twice over. If Charlie knocks someone up, that’ll be everyone in the family with some kind of news.”

Hermione chuckled. “Has Charlie even ever _looked_ at a girl? Or anyone, for that matter?”

He considered this. “You know, I don’t think he _has_ ,” he admitted, leaning forwards to look at Charlie, who was talking animatedly with Hagrid. They seemed to be mutually displeased by whatever they were talking about—probably dragon breeding laws. “I guess he really _is_ just interested in his dragons.”

“Hey, everyone!” came a voice, and Ron and Lavender walked in, hand in hand, looking more than a little sheepish.

Everyone in the room shrieked some variation of ‘Congratulations’, several people jumping to their feet to hug Ron or Lavender. Neville got there first, rushing over to hug Ron so quickly that he nearly knocked Ron clean off his feet. He was, however, much gentler with Lavender.

Andromeda handed Teddy to Harry and embraced Lavender as they’d known each other for years, when in fact they’d only met a handful of times before and may well have never spoken directly. “How are you feeling, dear?—Oh, do sit down,” she insisted, making a shooing motion at George, who promptly jumped to his feet and out of Lavender’s way. With a roll of his eyes, Bill pulled out his wand again, and another sofa appeared in the room. It was starting to get just a little cramped, but in the good way. In the cosy way that reminded them all of the Burrow.

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” Lavender laughed, as she and Ron sat down. She looked shocked and delighted beyond words. “I’m just— _we’re_ just so pleased that the babies are healthy.” She looked over at Ron, who was smiling from ear to ear. Hermione had never seen him look so happy, and she couldn’t be happier for him.

“Glad to hear,” Bill smiled at them both. “But I have to say, I’m not jealous. Twins?”

“ _Oi!_ ” Fred and George said together. Bill, though being the most mature Weasley, was still their big brother, so he just smirked at them and put an arm around Fleur’s shoulders. Percy, in an uncharacteristically laidback moment, laughed loudly, until Mrs Weasley shot him a look and he stopped, flushing.

“It’s going to be a lot,” Lavender admitted, then turned to Ron and took his hands, beaming at him. “But I’m so excited.”

“Weasleys have big families,” Ron agreed, then stood up. “Do you want something to drink, Lav?”

Putting a hand to her forehead, Lavender breathed out slowly. “You know what, I’m craving apple juice again,” she admitted.

Ron gave a fond laugh, bent to kiss her cheek, then headed to the kitchen. Ginny and Luna immediately sat themselves down either side of Lavender and began talking animatedly about everything that had happened since they’d last seen each other.

“Ginny got onto the Holyhead Harpies reserve team!” Luna said proudly.

“Luna’s taking over _The Quibbler_ from Xenophilius,” Ginny said, equally proudly and louder.

Lavender laughed at them both, turning her head back and forth as they both chattered at her. Then, as if all three of them suddenly had an idea, they turned to stare directly at Hermione, who almost flinched under the intensity of their gaze.

“Um…” she said, “Is something wrong?”

“Not at all,” Ginny grinned, and Hermione had learned to be wary when Ginny looked at her like that. “We just haven’t seen you in, what? Six months?”

“Harry’s birthday,” Lavender agreed, nodding. She also had a look on her face that made Hermione considering jumping to her feet and leaving the room. Luna, too, had let more of her astuteness, normally hidden by her dreamy expression, come to the surface. No wonder, Hermione thought, Ginny loved her so much. Hermione might’ve been the most academically successful, but Luna was easily just as clever. She skipped along paths that others merely trudged, her mind drawing connections that most others would miss entirely.

Hermione felt something lurch in her stomach, like when George had sat next to her at the sofa only minutes prior.

_Oh no._

Ginny shuffled along the seat so there was a gap between her and Lavender, and all three of them smiled at her like the Fates holding her thread. She thought about looking at Fred, then wondered if that would tip her hand, then supposed that it was going to happen anyway, so…

She looked at him, and raised her eyebrows. Fred looked back at her and shrugged, blank-faced. Ginny, Luna and Lavender all giggled.

Sort-of dreading what might happen, but also excited in a girlish sort of way, the way that reminded her of the times she and Ginny had stayed up late in the common room, trying to stifle their giggles, Hermione sat between Ginny and Lavender. Because of where their sofa was, it meant that when she looked straight ahead, she was looking directly at Fred.

“Hey,” Ginny then said to him, “Could you grab me a Butterbeer from downstairs?”

“Get it yourself,” Fred snorted, standing up and heading for the kitchen.

As soon as he was out of the room, Ginny said, “So what’s been going on with you two?”

Hermione blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“Oh, don’t lie, Hermione,” Lavender sighed. “You’re a terrible liar.”

“I am not!”

“No, you really are,” Ginny told her. “Remember when you and Krum were dating in fourth year?”

Hermione huffed. “well that’s because I _wanted_ to tell you,” she said. “But there’s not—there’s not anything _to_ tell. Me and Fred, we’ve just… hung out a lot, because he was in Hogsmeade.”

“You spent an awful lot of weekends in Hogsmeade,” Luna said lightly. “Far more than me and Ginny ever did.”

Hermione put out her hands. “I am not—there’s nothing going on with me and—and Fred.”

Luna cocked her head. “Why not?” she asked. “It’s obvious he adores you. That or the Wrackspurts have gotten to him,” she added thoughtfully. “But I’m almost certain it’s because of you.”

“Uh… thanks?” Hermione said blankly. Lavender took one of Hermione’s hands in both her own and smiled. A few shorts years ago, that gesture would’ve infuriated Hermione; she’d been exceedingly jealous of the attention Lavender had gotten, especially the attention she’d gotten from Ron. She was a classic beauty, with luminous eyes and dark skin and hair twisted into elegant braids. She was effortlessly feminine, talented at the one ‘magic’ Hermione herself had been endlessly confounded by, and to make things worse, she’d been so bloody _nice_ to everyone. A few short years ago, Hermione had hated Lavender, because Lavender had been everything she wasn’t.

Now, however, she admired Lavender. Admired that she and Ron had found something worth holding on to, admired that she had survived the war without sacrificing her kindness. So she squeezed Lavender’s hand back and asked, “What?”

“You really are a terrible liar,” she said earnestly. “And we’ve had our suspicions since the summer, you know. Fred spent that whole weekend shamelessly flirting with you, hardly even _looked_ at anyone else—”

“Yeah, because the three of you are all in relationships and Ginny’s his _sister_ ,” Hermione replied. “That was just Fred being… Fred.”

“He could’ve flirted with other girls,” Ginny said. “Why are you lying, ‘Mione? Not in a judge-y way,” she added. “But just… why? Ron wouldn’t care.”

“He wouldn’t,” Lavender agreed. “Honestly… I think he’d be glad if he knew you were seeing someone. I think he worries about you sometimes.”

 _That_ was a little irritating. Hermione scowled. “I don’t need his pity,” she said, “Or yours, for that matter.”

“That’s not what we meant,” Ginny said quickly. “But… everyone needs someone to fall back on, and obviously friends and family are a huge part of that, but… there’s something to be said for having that kind of connection with someone.” She smiled warmly at Luna, who reached over to squeeze her hands.

Hermione sighed. “Alright, alright, I see your point,” she muttered. “ _Fine_. Me and Fred are… we’re seeing each other. _But we kept it quiet_ —” she continued pointedly, as Lavender, Ginny and Luna all began giggling, “—because we didn’t want to… to jinx it. Or make things weird. We wanted to make sure it was something worth… worth getting everyone excited over.”

“Well, is it?” Lavender asked. “How long have you two been seeing each other? Since the summer, I’ll bet, even Fred Weasley wouldn’t flirt that outrageously with someone he wasn’t dating.”

Hermione flushed. “Since, er… January.”

“JANUARY?” Ginny squawked, and everyone turned to look at her. She swallowed. “Ahem. Um. January would be—would be a _terrible_ month for George and Angie to get married, babe,” she said loudly. Everyone turned back to their conversations except George and Angelina, who shot Ginny a funny look; why would she be discussing _their_ wedding?

“Oh, I don’t know,” Luna remarked, unfazed. “I think a snowy wedding would be pretty. We can cast Warming Charms.” She turned to Hermione. “Did _you_ have to cast any Warming Charms in January? Or did Fred do that for you?”

“What am I doing?” came Fred’s voice. He was holding a Butterbeer in each hand and looking down at the four of them with a perplexed and _ever so slightly_ worried look.

He gave one of the Butterbeers to Ginny, who smiled and said, “Hermione, apparently.”

It was just as well Fred wasn’t taking a drink just then, because he would’ve choked. His eyes went wide. “Uh… right…” he said, shooting Hermione a look. She just nodded, and then he grinned. “Yes, as a matter of fact. I am. Come to congratulate me, sis?”

Ginny snorted. “Nothing short of a _miracle_ that you managed to snag her after Ron,” she said, “One turn with a Weasley boy is enough to scare most people off.”

Lavender frowned at her. “Hey, that’s my boyfriend you’re talking about.”

“You dated when you were _sixteen_. Hermione had a crush on him when he still had a wanted criminal for a pet,” Ginny said blandly. Lavender grimaced.

“We’ll keep it quiet,” Luna told Fred and Hermione, “Since you two are still so shy about it. But I think it’s sweet.” She gave another dreamy smile.

Ginny and Lavender nodded. “We’ll keep our mouths shut until you’re ready,” Ginny promised, and Lavender added, “I won’t tell Ron.”

“Oh, you can tell him,” Hermione sighed, standing up. “He might as well find out, anyway. Now, girls, if you’ll excuse me, I need to have a quick chat with Fred—alone.”

“Like the ‘chat’ me and Luna had last Christmas?” Ginny asked slyly. Hermione stuck out her tongue and took Fred’s arm, leading him out of the living room and passing Ron as he entered, holding an apple juice for Lavender and a Butterbeer for himself.

He blinked at Fred and Hermione as they passed him. “You guys alright?” he asked.

“Ask your girlfriend,” Hermione said dryly, not even looking at him as she walked past, leading Fred. She led him into the hallway, up the stairs, and into her bedroom.

Well, technically it wasn’t _her_ bedroom—hadn’t been since she’d moved out—but it was the room she always slept in when she visited. She pulled Fred in, shut the door behind her and asked, “Are you okay?”

Fred blinked at her. “Fine,” he said blankly. “Why? Are you?”

She swallowed. “Um… I think so. I just…” She shook her head. “Ginny and the others sort of… um…” She couldn’t explain it. One moment, she’d been perfectly fine with telling them—or, really, she hadn’t cared about hiding it. Now, she felt all flushed and nervous, and a little like she’d made a mistake.

“Hey,” Fred said gently, stepping forwards to put his hands on her arm, rubbing gently. “You told them, yeah, but you heard—they won’t tell anyone else if you don’t want them to.”

She nodded, not looking at him. “God, I… I don’t know why I’m so uncomfortable,” she muttered. “Because I like this—I like _you_. A lot. But…”

He shrugged. “It can be scary, telling people something like this,” he said. “But if you don’t want to tell people, you don’t have to.”

“But what about you?” she asked. “I mean—Merlin, I made you hide it from George for months!”

Fred shook his head. “‘Mione, you didn’t _make_ me do anything. I just saw how… well… _this_ you got when you thought about telling people and decided I’d rather keep a secret for a while than make you upset.” He tightened his grip on her arms a little. “You can relax, love, I’m not annoyed or anything. And I don’t mind who else we tell, even if that’s nobody.”

“I don’t…” she muttered, “I don’t know why I’m like this… Why it—it scares me so much. These people are my family, _your_ family. And I’m not ashamed of you at all.”

He cocked a smile. “Why would you be ashamed? Successful small-business-owner and war-hero? I’m a catch!” That made her chuckle a little, and he beamed. “‘Mione,” he said again. “I’m not a psychologist or anything, but maybe is related to how you’re scared of people not liking you? And you’re maybe worried that, because of you and Ron… people might… I dunno, be weird?”

She bit her lip. Now that he said it, that _did_ feel like at least part of the reason, but some of it was just nebulous fear. She hated the unknown; _hated_ it. That was why she’d been so terrible at Divination. She didn’t like wiggle room, she didn’t like _possibility_. She wanted hard answers and concrete logic. And Fred and telling people and… and _love_ wasn’t any of that. And it was more than a little scary.

“Maybe…” she mumbled, putting her head in her hands. “God… I think I might’ve been working a bit too much. I feel… _fried_.”

Fred chuckled again. “Merlin, the great Hermione Granger admits she’s been working too much,” he remarked. “A Christmas miracle.”

“It’s not Christmas,” she said into his jumper. It was soft and smelled like him. Like burned sugar and his aftershave and the flat in Hogsmeade.

“Fine, a New Year’s miracle, then,” he amended, rolling his eyes with faux-exasperation. As she pulled back from his embrace, he kissed her forehead. “You know,” he then said, “I’ve never seen your room here, before.”

He hadn’t. This past year, they’d only really seen each other in Hogsmeade, which had meant the flat above Wheezes. Before then, he’d never had cause to go in her room.

“Oh, this isn’t really my room—not anymore,” Hermione said. “Now that I’ve moved to near Diagon Alley,” she added, slightly mischievously.

Fred smirked at her. “Right you are,” he agreed. He looked at the door and cocked his head. “What’s the time?”

Hermione glanced at her watch. “Blimey, it’s eleven-fifteen. I didn’t realise it was getting so late.”

“Ah, not that late,” he said, “We still have forty-five minutes before midnight.” He turned his gaze from the door, back on her, smiling in that dangerous, enticing way of his. “A lot someone can do in forty-five minutes.”

She smirked up at him. “Like what?”

“Oh,” he said airily, “Like pretty young witches and handsome young wizards who didn’t get to kiss under the mistletoe.” He winked roguishly.

“God,” she muttered, trying not to laugh. “It wasn’t funny when Ginny said it and it’s not funny when you say it.”

He grinned. “Everything I say is funny,” he told her, then bent his head, kissing her sweetly. “You’re okay?” he asked. “You’re not scared?”

“With you? Never,” she promised, sliding her hands up his chest and around his neck. “I don’t mind,” she said, “If we… if we tell the others.”

His grin was radiant, and when he kissed her, it was the easiest, safest thing in the world to melt against him. He hugged her tight around the waist as she curved into him, fitting so perfectly.

“God, I missed you…” He might’ve been embarrassed about how desperate he sounded if it had been anyone else, but god, he _had_ missed her. He’d missed the way her face would light up when she talked about something that fascinated her; he’d missed the way she would blush when he teased her, secretly pleased that someone was following what she was saying enough _to_ tease her; he’d missed the soft little sighs she made when he kissed her.

“I missed you, too,” she half-whimpered, threading her hands into his hair, kissing him eagerly. Every time she came back to him she was bowled over by just how much she _enjoyed_ him. Enjoyed talking to him, enjoyed kissing him, enjoyed simply being around him. This past year they’d passed any number of days together. She would study in the third-bedroom-slash-office, poring over textbooks of socio-political analysis as he sat in the middle of the living room, trying to turn Wheezes’ latest idea into reality, surrounded by the chaos of the unsuccessful attempts. Or she would Apparate them to nearby Aberdeen and go to a movie in a Muggle theatre, and he would be stunned by how Muggles had achieved all this without magical aid, and they would stroll through the streets, hand in hand, as two ordinary young adults on an ordinary date. Or he would invite her for dinner and she would sit in the kitchen area, strictly forbidden from helping, and they would chatter as he endeavoured to cook for her something that he always complained didn’t taste as good as his mother’s, but she would love it anyway.

They had fallen into that so very easily. Shifting from friends to something more had been practically natural, after they’d gotten over their initial shyness. Hermione might have thought it was purely because they’d been friends first, if not for the fact that it hadn’t happened with Ron. Yes, she and Fred had known each other for years, almost grown up together in some ways, but some of it was more than that. Some of it was… unknown. And she might have hated it, if not for how much she loved it. Him.

“We really…” she panted, as he began to trail kisses along her jaw, down her neck, “…really shouldn’t be doing this…”

His chuckle was more like a purr, something low and sultry. “Relax, love,” he murmured, “We have half an hour before anyone comes looking… I think we can manage that.”

She huffed, half thinking about making a joke, telling him he never took anywhere _close_ to half an hour, but the way he was sucking on the skin under her ear, the way his fingers were ghosting under the hem of her jumper, she couldn’t quite form a witty retort. She carded her fingers through his hair, urging him on with soft, shaking breaths, with the way she curved against him, wanting so badly to feel his hands, his lips on her skin.

Over the past year, he’d become more comfortable with his scars, and she liked to think she’d had some part in facilitating that. Her hands slid under the bottom of his long-sleeved shirt, stroking over his abdomen, and she felt his breath hitch.

“You cheeky little witch,” he breathed, nipping her earlobe. “You just said we don’t have time…”

“You just said we _did_ ,” she replied, grabbing his shirt and lifting. He grinned at her and stepped back, yanking the back of his collar, stripping off his shirt in one smooth motion, and Hermione had to admit there was something indescribably hot when he did that.

“I did,” he agreed with a chuckle, crouching to grip the backs of her knees and hoisting her up. She clung to him as he picked her up, wrapping her legs around his hips, and he set her on the edge of the chest of drawers, hand sliding up her legs, over her hips, to pull off her jumper.

Her bra was a deep red colour, and he smiled mischievously as he hooked a finger under the strap, running it along the material. “I don’t believe I’ve seen this one before,” he remarked.

She smirked at him. “What do you think?”

“Stunning,” he replied, slowly pulling the strap down, over her shoulder. His smile was sly. “But not a _patch_ on the woman wearing it.”

“You should see the panties,” she said conversationally, and he chuckled, capturing her mouth, pulling her forwards by the hips. She never got tired of the sensation of her bare skin against his, of the way his finger traced the top of her jeans, as if contemplating whether or not to dip beneath.

“Oh, I will,” he purred, kissing her again. “Later.” Because there was no guarantee that someone wouldn’t come upstairs to find them before midnight, and even with Silencing and Locking Charms placed on her door—or perhaps because of them—everyone would know what they were up to. And just because she wanted to tell everyone didn’t mean she wanted them to find out by walking in and finding Fred, naked between her legs.

He stroked a hand across her cheek. “You promise you’re okay?” he asked, “Telling the others? Because we don’t have to.”

She nodded, covering his hand with her own. “I don’t want to lie to them, Fred,” she said, “Especially not about something I’m happy about.”

His smile was so large she was sure his cheeks would be hurting, but he didn’t seem to care. “I’m happy about us, too,” he said, and he was; almost more than he could put into words. He’d dreamt of being able to be casual with her, of being able to kiss her goodbye and hold her hand and tell his family about things they’d done together, but he’d had to be so careful, make sure not to give the game away. He was normally good at keeping secrets, but that had been an especially difficult one.

“Come on,” she said, reaching for her jumper, because if someone noticed they were gone and realised they were shut in her room she would just about die of embarrassment. Fred knew this, and looked like he was trying to think of a way to keep her here, anyway. He settled for hugging her around the waist a moment longer, planting a kiss on her shoulder, then retrieving his own jumper.

Downstairs, everyone was getting excited as midnight drew ever closer. Bill was fiddling with the radio, trying to find the right frequency for the countdown, Fleur and Angelina were laughing about something as they cooed over Teddy. Ron and Harry were chatting about something—probably Quidditch, if the way Ron was gesticulating was any indication—whilst Lavender, Ginny and Luna giggled on their sofa still. They looked up when Hermione and Fred came back in and giggled harder.

Ron and Harry looked at them too, with strangely similar expressions of surprise, considering they weren’t actually related. Hermione looked them dead in the eye as she took Fred’s hand. He glanced down for a moment, surprised, then smiled at her and squeezed her fingers encouragingly.

“I think I’m going to regret asking this,” Ron said, “But… how long has this been going on for?”

Fred grinned. “Remember when Harry taught us Monop-lolly?”

Harry stared. “ _That_ long? How’d you keep it secret?”

Ron, Fred and Hermione all looked at him as if to say, _you know how_ , and he rolled his eyes at them.

“Fine,” he said, “Well, er… congratulations, I suppose.”

“Yeah,” Ron muttered. “Just—don’t tell me anything about it. It was bad enough when Ginny and Luna started dating.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “People date, Ron,” she said, “People have sex. Including your siblings.”

He shot her a withering look. “People also go to the toilet,” he said, “Doesn’t mean I want to hear about it.”

“Child,” she muttered, but it was more good-natured and less exasperated than it would’ve been two years ago. Absence made the heart grow fonder, and Hermione found herself thinking fondly even of Ron and Harry’s most irritating traits when she went months without seeing them. The two boys she was happy to call her brothers.

Bill and Percy were chatting about something—something that clearly involved the opinion of all the Weasley men, because Ron and Fred were called over—and as they went to see what all the fuss was about, Harry gave Hermione an amused smile.

“So,” he said, “What made you two decide to come clean?”

Hermione shrugged. “Just figured it was time,” she replied. She watched Fred and Ron crowd with their brothers. Charlie had made the mistake of trying to match Hagrid, drink for drink, and looked particularly unsteady. An enormous wave of warm fondness rushed through her and she hugged her elbows. “I really like him, Harry, I… Things are going well. And, now that I’ve moved back here for my A-Levels—”

“And uni,” Harry added, grinning. “Let me guess, Cambridge?”

“Oxford,” she corrected, “Well, I _hope_. But yeah. And George and Angelina are moving to the Hogsmeade shop—the flat’s bigger—so Fred will be back here, and…”

“You didn’t want us to find out by walking past you in Diagon Alley in a date?” he suggested, chuckling.

Hermione flushed. “Yeah, pretty much,” she mumbled.

“I’ll be honest,” he said, “I wouldn’t have pegged you and Fred, but now that you’ve told me… I can see it.”

She looked at him. “What’s there to see? We _are_ dating.”

Harry laughed, taking a drink of Butterbeer. “Well, _yeah_ , but I meant—I get it. You two are a good fit for one another. Strange,” he added lightly, “But good.”

Hermione smiled. “It’s nice to have your approval,” she teased, because in some ways he really _was_ her brother, and it was nice to know she had someone watching out for her in that capacity, even as they both knew she would handle herself just fine.

“It’s the next one over!” came a loud, insistent voice, and Hermione and Harry looked over to the assembled Weasley brothers to find that Percy and Ron were arguing about what was the right frequency for the New Year’s broadcast.

“No, it’s back a few!” Ron told him.

“Ronald, I’ve been listening to this broadcast every year—it’s the _next one over_.”

“Got it!” Bill announced. “It was back three.”

Ron gave Percy a smug look, and Fred and George placed themselves either side of Percy, wearing matching grins.

“What was it you said, Perce?” George asked innocently.

“You listen to this broadcast every year?” said Fred. Percy scowled at them both and waved them away, returning to where he’d been sitting and chatting with Mr Weasley. Mrs Weasley was now holding Teddy as she talked with Fleur and Andromeda. Fred and George laughed as Bill slowly cranked up the volume on the tinny radio.

“— _excitement in Diagon Alley as hundred of witches and wizards cram themselves into the streets, all eagerly anticipating the stroke of midnight that will bring Wizarding Britain—and the world—into a new millennium!_ ” came a cheerful reporter’s voice.

Fred came to stand beside Hermione, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and grinning. “I’m going to get _so_ many questions from Mum tomorrow,” he told her cheerfully. “That is, if she’s not so tipsy that she forgets everything.”

Hermione chuckled. “You’re a bit old to be getting the ‘don’t go knocking up any young women’ speech, aren’t you?”

“Bold of you to assume we only get given it once,” he laughed. “We all got it again at Christmas—was the first time Mum’d seen Ron since she got his owl about Lavender.”

“Eighteen _is_ pretty young,” she admitted thoughtfully. “Or, nineteen, I suppose, when the babies are born. But Ron’ll be a great father.”

“Oh, absolutely,” Fred agreed, then grinned at her. “Can you imagine, a whole new generation of Weasleys for me and Gred to corrupt.”

She slapped his chest lightly, but that only made him laugh again. He had the perfect temperament for an uncle, she thought. Silly, daring, just a little reckless; the kind that made kids feel special and grown up. With Fleur and Lavender both pregnant, and George engaged, it was only a matter of time before Fred would be inundated with niblings to turn into his disciples of chaos.

And she, she supposed, would be Aunt Hermione.

Even if she and Fred didn’t stay together—and, though she’d always been terrible at Divination, she was pretty sure that was unlikely—she was as close to the Weasley family as Harry was. They _were_ her family, and the idea of having nieces and nephews to babysit, to read Muggle stories to, was strangely exciting, even though she didn’t especially love children; messy and loud as they were.

Aunt Hermione. She liked the sound of that.

“— _truly, this is a historic occasion. Most wizards alive these days have never witnessed a changeover into a new century, let alone a new millennium! And, with the defeat of He Who Must Not Be Named only eighteen months past, everyone in Wizarding Britain is overjoyed to bear witness to one of the most tangible forms of moving beyond the terror and prejudice that You-Know-Who and his Death Eaters preached_ —”

“Aha!” Ron cried, grinning at Harry, “You owe me a Sickle!”

“— _for those of you who are unaware, You-Know-Who was defeated in the Battle of Hogwarts by none other than Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived_ —”

“I think,” Harry said, smirking, as Ron swore. “You owe _me_ a Sickle.”

“— _and his companions, the members of Dumbledore’s Army, including Ronald Weasley and Hermione Granger_.”

Ginny rolled her eyes. “Merlin, can we get through _one_ broadcast these days without you lot being mentioned?” she asked, laughing even as she was exasperated.

“I think it’s nice,” Luna murmured, “They want to celebrate their freedom from terror.”

“— _Mr Potter is not here in Diagon Alley tonight, but I am confident in saying that wherever he is, everyone here, myself included, wishes him and his family a very happy New Year, and extend to him our deepest gratitude_.”

Fred and George started whooping, and everyone joined in—even Hermione—as Harry covered his face and said loudly, “I hate all of you! You’re all bastards!” though he was laughing as he said it.

“But Harry!” said Fred, “We only want to extend to you our _gratitude!_ ”

“Our _deepest_ gratitude!” George agreed. Angelina and Hermione, at exactly the same moment, swatted them.

“You can sleep somewhere else tonight—the both of you!” Harry told them.

George snorted. “Joke’s on you! I’m bunking with Angelina!”

“And I’m with ‘Mione,” Fred added.

This had the desired effect. About half the people in the room—Harry, Ron, Ginny, Lavender, Luna, George and Angelina—already knew, and didn’t really react. The _other_ half—Mr and Mrs Weasley, Bill, Fleur, Charlie, Percy, Hagrid, Neville, Hannah and Andromeda—all turned to stare at them. Hagrid just grinned and raised his kettle-sized glass again. Bill and Fleur gave a sort of knowing smile that was common on already married couples—unsurprisingly, Mr and Mrs Weasley did the same, and Bill looked _eerily_ like his father for a moment. Percy raised his eyebrows, and Hermione was willing to bet he was wondering what she saw in Fred that enticed her so much, after she’d been so irritated by Ron for so many years. In some ways, Percy still saw Fred and George as careless, immature pranksters and because they were younger than him, they were to be lumped in with Ron: his younger brothers, the classic Gryffindors who didn’t care much about schooling, only daring (and often dangerous) escapades. But then, Percy had never been especially close with the twins _or_ Ron. In some ways, he was the most childish out of all the Weasley children, Hermione thought. The desire to appear mature and grown-up was, in itself, juvenile.

“You know what,” Charlie said with a laugh, “That explains a _lot_.”

“Yeah!” Neville agreed, “You two were acting so weird at Harry’s birthday!”

“We were not!” Hermione protested.

“Yeah, you were,” Ginny drawled. She opened her mouth to say something else, but a loud _BONG!_ Cut her off, and everyone turned expectantly towards the radio.

“— _and here we are_ ,” said the reporter, “— _the final minute of the twentieth century, the second millennium!_ ” Everybody got up from their seats and stood in a circle around the radio. Andromeda had Teddy stand on a chair so he was tall enough to reach her hand and Harry’s on his other side. “ _We stand here not as witches and wizards, as Purebloods and Muggleborns, but as people. People who have braved unspeakable adversity and emerged stronger and more united. In just a few short seconds, we will brave our next great adventure… Ten. Nine. Eight._ ”

Everyone began to join in.

“Seven!”

Hermione took Fred’s hand on her right and Ginny’s on her left, grinning at them both.

“Six.”

She felt Fred squeeze her fingers again. He was so physically affectionate, always touching her in some way when they were alone together; hugging her around the waist, kissing her cheek, holding her hand. She could immediately tell how much more relaxed he was, now that he could freely touch and kiss her without worry of tipping the others off.

“Five!”

Teddy, not quite understanding what was happening, babbled in time with their countdown, making Andromeda and Mrs Weasley fuss over him.

“Four!”

On some level, he couldn’t quite believe he was standing here; surrounded by the people he loved, celebrating like they had never known darkness. Or, no, not quite; they _had_ known darkness, they all had, but none of them let it define them. He held on tight to Hermione’s hand, not because he was worried she might slip away, but he knew she wouldn’t. On his other side, his other half, George met his gaze, and they shared a laugh like they shared everything else.

“Three!”

Teddy could tell something exciting was about to happen and began jumping up and down on his chair; his tiny, chubby hands gripping Harry and Andromeda’s tightly.

“Two!”

Fred threaded his fingers through hers, swinging her hand like when they’d walked down the street in Aberdeen, safe from the prying eyes of people who knew them. Now they could do that on the streets of Wizarding London, of Hosgmeade, and it was such a small change, but it thrilled her all the same.

“ _One!_ ”

Hermione couldn’t stop grinning, even though her cheeks were beginning to ache. She just couldn’t. _Goodbye, 1999_ , she thought…

“ _HAPPY NEW YEAR!_ ”

Grimmauld Place shook as they and every other household on the street let out a huge cheer, and the radio burst out into a jaunty rendition of _Auld Lang Syne_. Everyone threw their linked hands in the air, then turned to their partners with well-wishes and kisses on their lips. Hagrid and Harry hugged, then Hagrid gave Harry a hearty pat on the back that nearly floored him. Percy smiled pleasantly at Charlie, who wrestled him into a tight hug to rival their mother’s, and Percy tried to pretend he hated it. Andromeda kissed the top of Teddy’s turquoise head and bounced him as he giggled, not understanding the excitement but enchanted all the same.

Hermione and Fred were the last to break apart, her arms around his neck, his around her waist. She knew there were people looking at them, even as everyone began to chatter or sing along to the radio, but in that moment, she only cared about one pair of eyes watching her. She pulled back slowly, enjoying that kiss, her first kiss of the new millennium.

“Happy New Year, ‘Mione,” Fred said softly.

She pushed herself up on her tiptoes, feeling full to the bursting with sheer happiness, and grinned. “I love you.”

Fred eyes went wide. “Wh—what did you just say?”

Hermione had never known him to be so shocked he went quiet, and gave a delighted little laugh. “I said, _I love you_ ,” she told him, beaming. “I do. I think the only thing holding me back was that… we hadn’t told people, and… I didn’t want to say it any sooner, just because—well, I didn’t want you to make you feel like you needed to say it back to—”

“Hermione,” he cut her off, and his small, open-mouthed smile morphed into a blazing grin. It was the easiest, most obvious thing in the world. “I love you, too.”

She reached up and kissed him again, giddy with joy. His arms tightened around her waist as he kissed her back, both of them grinning against the other’s mouth. When they broke apart, she kept her arms around his neck, and knew she wasn’t going to let go. Not ever. The books could keep their romances. She had a better one, all her own.

**Author's Note:**

> My god. This is... so long? When I started this thing it was only going to be, like 12k max. Oops. Hope you enjoyed!
> 
> EDIT: the lovely Konusi translated this behemoth into Russian on ficbook.net—[find it here!](https://ficbook.net/readfic/10107754)


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